


Through the Dark Mirror

by sunstarunicorn



Category: Flashpoint (TV), Ghostbusters - All Media Types, The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7430717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wordy thought Ed and Spike were joking when they told him about the dark Team One they’d encountered.  Then he finds himself trapped with a Team he doesn’t recognize and can’t trust.  Can he get home?  And who’s taken his place on Team One?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have drawn ideas and inspiration for this story from two brilliant stories. The first story is a Flashpoint fanfiction called “Out of Time” written by Andorian Ice Princess-AIP and posted on Fanfiction.net. I encourage you to read AIP’s story, as it is quite a gem in its own right. The second story is a Real Ghostbusters fanfiction. The author of the RGB story has requested that I withhold their information.
> 
> I have also been asked to emphasize that this story is NOT to be considered a sequel, but rather a standalone story inspired by other stories.
> 
> This story is set after both of the aforementioned stories as well as my own “How to Save a Life”.
> 
> I do not own either _Flashpoint_ or _The Real Ghostbusters_.
> 
> Entire work edited as of July 11th, 2017.

Kevin ‘Wordy’ Wordsworth stared at the emblem in the team locker room. It looked similar, but not; like looking in a fun house mirror and seeing doors and people stretched out into caricatures of themselves. Only this was no fun house and Wordy wasn’t looking in a mirror. The emblem’s familiar knight’s helm had been replaced by a berserker helm and the lightning bolts had twisted into a swastika.

 _Hell…I’m in Hell._ The SRU officer looked around, shivering and glad he was finally alone. His team, no, definitely not _his_ team, had all gone home after the briefing. A briefing Jules hadn’t even stayed for, a briefing where Ed, no, _Edward_ , had laid into him for _not_ shooting their subject, and the Sarge had been drunk and getting drunker by the minute.

Wordy swallowed hard. _Kevin, they all called me Kevin, except the Sarge._ _Wait…_ Wordy’s gaze darted back to the SRU emblem. _I’ve seen that before,_ he realized with a surge of fear. _When Ed called me Kevin a few months ago. When he and Spike got caught in that building collapse. He, he was talking about another me, and another Team One, and I told him it was just a dream._ Wordy snorted. _So much for_ that _idea. Then that porter gave him a keychain and he went white. It looked_ just _like that emblem._

Stunned and terrified, Wordy sank down on the locker room bench. _Real, it was real…no it_ is _real…and now I’m stuck here._

The twisted emblem loomed over the normally tough and calm constable, mocking his quiet plea. “Please, I want to go _home_.”


	2. Patrol to Hell

_14 hours earlier_

“Daddy, daddy, play with me,” Lilly begged as she came into the kitchen, favorite doll in one hand. The other stretched out in a silent request to be picked up.

Her father, a tall, broad-shouldered man with buzzcut brown hair and a friendly, open expression, looked down at her, a smile lighting up his face. His light gray eyes danced down at her and he chuckled at her antics.

Wordy swept his middle child up and hugged her. “Sorry princess, Daddy has to go to work now,” he apologized. “Maybe this evening you and I can play with your dolls.”

His wife, Shelley, smiled at father and daughter. She was only a little shorter than her husband; her long blond hair was already in its customary ponytail and her blue eyes sparkled at her child. She possessed a willowy build and a gracious, gentle demeanor that her husband loved.

Lilly pouted as her mother took her from her father, giving her a quick squeeze and then setting her back down on the floor. “But it’s no fun to play with Ally,” the girl whined. “She’s too _little_.”

“Lilly…” her father warned quietly. Still pouting, Lilly left as her mother and father gave each other a good-bye hug.

“Be careful, Kevin,” Shelley whispered.

“Always, honey,” Wordy promised. “I love you.” With that, he headed out to the garage, slid into his car, and hit the road.

* * * * *

“Okay, Team One, we are patrolling today,” Greg Parker announced as he entered the briefing room, to a chorus of cheers from his team. He was a stocky man, balding with remnants of brown going gray hair on the sides of his head. Brown eyes warmed at his team’s cheers and his smile showed off the laugh lines around his eyes. The last week had been quiet, with no hot calls and only a smattering of warrants to serve. The entire team was sick of training, workouts, and paperwork.

“Club district?” Spike asked hopefully, gesturing between himself and Lou. Greg arched a brow. “What?” Spike protested at once, “There’s all kinds of trouble there all the time.”

“Fine,” Greg replied, his tone dry with sarcasm. “Patrol with all those very threatening young women in tube tops.” Spike, who was shorter than Greg, with a compact frame, black hair puffed up into little spikes, and brown eyes traded high fives with his best friend Lou. Lou had a darker tone than his friend, looking almost as if he had a permanent tan, sported buzzcutted dark hair, and brown eyes. He was taller than both Spike and Greg.

Greg turned toward Ed and Wordy. “Eddie? Mr. Wordsworth?”

Ed, the tallest of the team, leaned a bit further back in his chair. “East end, roving gangs of families, runaway strollers.” He was completely bald, had light blue eyes, a serious mien, and possessed a lanky build. Though his tone was deadpan, humor lit his eyes and, as soon as his boss moved on, he traded a wink with Wordy.

“All yours. Sam? Jules?”

Jules, the only female on Team One, was shorter than all her male teammates. She had long brown hair swept up in a ponytail, hazel eyes, petite features, and was slightly built. Sam was her opposite in height, only shorter than Ed and Wordy. He had crew-cut blond hair, along with typically blue eyes, and an athletic build.

Jules smirked at her teammates, specifically Spike. “We’ll take west.” She looked down at Sam and added, “I’m thinking chicken roti at Island Foods?”

Spike instantly volunteered for west and Greg shot him down with a wry, “You’ve got tube tops.”

With that and a final, “Let’s keep the peace,” Team One dispersed to their trucks.

* * * * *

Wordy opted for shotgun rather than driving. Ed’s brief flash of humor had evaporated into a touchy, grouchy mood that practically guaranteed a bout of half-barbed, prickly comments if Wordy drove, something Wordy was not at all interested in today. Better to let the hot-headed team leader take his annoyance out on the road, rather than Wordy.

Even with Ed driving, Wordy ‘enjoyed’ a host of comments from his friend, ranging from Clark’s latest attempt to get his curfew extended another hour, to how slow the driver in front of their truck was driving, to Ed’s difficulty understanding Clark’s fondness for classical music.

“Well, if you give Clark a half-hour, it shows you’re willing to trust him more and you’re open to compromise,” Wordy pointed out as Ed finally took a breath. If he could get Ed to focus on one topic, maybe he could head off a entire patrol’s worth of complaints; Ed’s foul, prickly moods didn’t happen often, but when they _did_ …well, Ed was lucky that Wordy didn’t lose his temper easily.

“And then what. Next thing I know he’ll be out all night,” Ed protested.

“If he does that, he loses the half-hour and he knows that.” Wordy studied Ed a moment longer, choosing his argument carefully. “Ed, he’s growing up. Before you know it, he’ll be out of the house, making his own rules. I say trust him unless he breaks that trust.”

Ed scowled unhappily, but did not protest. Wordy suspected that Clark growing up _was_ the problem; his friend didn’t like to think of his son going out where Ed couldn’t keep an eye on him and protect him. Ed would think about it, probably whine a bit more, and then maybe Clark would get his half-hour, if not the full hour. Wordy shifted his attention to the comm and bit back a laugh as Spike and Lou argued with a woman about the tab she’d just tried to walk out on.

“So much for tube tops,” Ed drawled, drawing another chuckle from his partner.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Before they could banter further, a call came through from headquarters. “Team One, got a 911 call from a bookstore on the east end. Robbery in progress,” Winnie reported.

“On it,” Ed called as Wordy snapped the siren on and got the address from Winnie.

“Four blocks from here, Ed.”

“Copy.”

“Winnie, any other details,” Wordy asked.

“No, caller reported the robbery and hung up,” Winnie replied.

Sarge’s voice came over the comm, “Eddie, you and Wordy need backup?”

“Standby,” Ed decided after an instant’s thought. “Sounds like it could be anything; we’ll go in, take a look, and call if we need help.”

“Copy that,” Sarge agreed, his voice, as always, calm. “We’ll keep patrolling then.”

Ed nodded to himself, trading a quick look with Wordy, who nodded back once. “Okay, hard entry, Wordy.”

“Copy.”                   

“Kill the siren,” Ed added, as he slewed the truck into a turn onto the street the bookstore was on.

Wordy flicked the siren off for the last block. The store they pulled up to looked old, but well cared for. _Rare Volumes and Vintage Books_ was scrolled across the display window in faded cream and gold lettering. Books were neatly stacked below the lettering, their spines fading a bit in the direct sunlight. The door, which stood ajar, was a heavy, well made wooden door with an old-fashioned knocker on it. Inside, Wordy spotted hardwood flooring instead of concrete or tiles; whoever owned this store had poured his heart into it.

Ed and Wordy got out of the SUV, Ed retrieving his submachine gun and Wordy drawing his sidearm. The two moved to the open door, standing to either side and out of the line of fire. Wordy nudged the door further open and Ed ducked inside, covering the shop with his weapon. Wordy followed once his partner reached cover, sweeping his handgun toward the rear of the room as he moved. Neither man spoke, communicating with hand signals in case the subjects were still hiding inside the bookstore; their brief squabble earlier pushed aside in favor of the job.

The inside of the shop resembled the aftermath of a whiteout, as books and loose pages littered the floor. Display tables were overturned, their legs jutting into the walkway and their contents spilled against the tall bookshelves lining the walls. One of the ladders used to get to the uppermost shelves hung halfway off its tracks, creaking a little as the one remaining wheel twisted in its enclosure. On the checkout counter, the register drawer sat open, mute testimony to the results of the chaos. In the center of the counter, a silver pocket-watch sat, glittering in the sunlight streaming through the windows. No one was there.

The two SRU officers used the fallen tables for cover as they cleared the room, meter by meter. As they neared the back of the shop, Ed spotted a door leading further in and nodded to it. Wordy moved up next to the door and, on Ed’s signal, threw it open. The two officers swept the inner passageway and the rooms it led to. Nothing. No blood, no bodies, and the inner rooms had none of the chaos they’d found in the outer area. At the back door, the officers turned around and headed back, searching for any sign or clue as to where the shop’s owner or the thieves had gone.

Once they’d reached the front of the store again, Wordy reached down and clicked the comm. “No sign of anyone here, Sarge. The place is a mess, the register’s empty, so there was definitely a robbery, but we can’t find anyone.”

“What about our caller?” Greg asked.

“No sign of him,” Ed reported. “We’ll keep looking, see what we can find.”

Wordy inspected the counter and the register. Gouges marred the metal around the register drawer’s keyhole. “Ed. Looks like they forced the register. Maybe we’ll get prints.”

Ed nodded as he checked the nearby table. “Maybe here too, Wordy.”

Wordy’s gaze fell on the silver pocket-watch. He leaned closer, inspecting the engravings that decorated the lid. “Hey, check this out, Ed. Someone must have left this behind.”

Ed’s head came up, curious, as Wordy picked up the watch. “Wow, someone really did a nice job on this,” Wordy added. “All that engraving must have cost a fortune.” He squinted at the engraving, turning the watch as he tried to read it. “Must be in another language,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he tilted the watch up to inspect the clasp before looking up at Ed. “Maybe whoever left this behind had something in here.”

Ed tilted his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“My grandfather had a picture of my grandmother in his pocket-watch’s lid,” Wordy explained.

“Ah.” Ed nodded in understanding. “Okay, let’s see.”

Wordy turned the watch and flicked the clasp open. A white flash came from the inside of the watch. Wordy flinched at the brilliant, blinding light, but managed to keep hold of the watch. It took a minute of blinking to see again.

When he could see again, Wordy did a double-take. He was standing in an alley, rank with the smell of garbage and rot. A submachine gun was sitting on an old wine barrel in front of him and a shield leaned against the wall next to it. Of Ed and the bookshop, there was no sign.


	3. Surviving Team One

“Ed?” Wordy called, keeping his voice down.

Nothing.

Wordy checked his radio and tried again, “Sarge? Anyone?”

Silence and static were his only response. _What the heck is going on?_

Unnerved, Wordy turned the channel control, listening on each channel. Finally on channel five, he heard voices.

“Kevin! Where are you?” Jules demanded sharply, making Wordy jump, both at the lack of his nickname and an unfamiliar hard edge in her voice. He looked down at the silver pocket-watch and quickly unfastened his equipment vest, pushed his bullet-proof vest aside, and shoved the watch into an inner pocket of his uniform. He wasn’t _entirely_ sure what had just happened, but his team needed him and he wasn’t going to let them down.

“Co…coming,” Wordy responded, re-fastening his vest and snatching up the gun and shield. The shield was unexpectedly heavy and Wordy dropped it before grimacing and hefting the shield up again, shoving down the sudden and unexpected exhaustion; exhaustion that made his gear seem ten times heavier than usual and dragged at his feet. He looked around, then picked a direction, hoping it was the right way. It felt like he’d been dropped into the middle of a movie, expected to know his lines and stage directions without so much as a script or an intro – or a warning.

“Hurry up, Kevin,” Ed snarled, his voice hard and angry.

Wordy flinched at that tone of voice from his best friend, but kept moving. As he reached the end of the alley, he spotted Jules and jogged to her. She glared at him.

“What took you so long?” she hissed, shoving him back a little as he reached her. Her hair was longer than it had been that morning and her vest actually looked sloppy, which was very unlike the conscientious Jules. And she had a total and complete _lack_ of compassion and empathy; though Wordy looked exhausted and more than a bit confused, Jules’ expression was filled with nothing but contempt for her own teammate.

Wordy resisted the temptation to ask, ‘Who are you and what have you done with Jules?’; instead he offered a quiet, “Sorry,” receiving a disbelieving huff for his effort.

“Save it, Kevin. If we lose this guy, it’s _your_ fault.”

Wordy gaped at Jules’ back as she turned and drew her gun. _Why wasn’t it already drawn?_ Wordy wondered. An uneasy, ‘something is very wrong’ feeling started crawling up his back, but he forced it aside, determined to do his job and keep the peace.

“Jules, Wordy, entry as we planned,” the Sarge’s voice came over. Wordy swallowed in relief to hear his nickname, but an unfamiliar slur in Sarge’s voice made him stiffen and frown all over again.

“Copy,” both officers chorused.

Wordy moved a bit in front of Jules, shielding her for entry. He ignored her “Oh _now_ you’re gonna do this right?” and waited for the order.

“Go, go, go!” Ed ordered. “Now, now, now!”

Wordy and Jules hit the door, the former using his weight to force it open. “Strategic Response Unit!” Jules yelled, as the pair entered a shabby, run-down room. She moved away from the shield, forcing Wordy to move with her as he sought to keep the shield between her and the subject.

“Down on the ground,” Wordy ordered as a shaggy, grimy man leapt up. The subject grabbed a handgun and fired it wildly at both SRU officers. The bullets pinged off Wordy’s shield. Jules snarled and moved to the side again. Wordy followed her, frustrated at her uncharacteristic behavior. More bullets pinged off the shield.

“Move him back,” Sarge ordered. Wordy blinked, surprised that Sarge was giving tactical orders. More than that even; Sarge was giving orders that sounded like he wanted the subject lined up for a _sniper_ shot. _Why would Sarge want this guy dead when we haven’t even tried talking?_ The thought was brief, but Wordy decided he’d probably just missed the negotiation, just like he seemed to have missed everything else between the bookshop and the alley; even so, he did _not_ try to move the subject back into Sam or Ed’s line of fire.

“Drop the gun, hands in the air,” Wordy ordered, moving to the side yet _again_ to shield Jules. He caught a quick glimpse of a startled look from the subject, then the man snarled and hurled something in their direction.

“Grenade, get down!” Wordy yelled as he hurtled into Jules, pushing her down and covering both of them with the shield. The grenade went off with a muffled thump, but the shield absorbed most of the blow, its metal twisting a bit under the force of the blast. The subject vanished through a ragged door behind him, his eyes wild and fearful as he ran. Wordy scrambled back up and headed after the subject, hitting a dead run even with the dragging, nagging exhaustion.

Jules stayed on the floor, grumbling about her hair getting messed up; she didn’t bother getting up again to back up her teammate. Instead, she tugged her hair out of its ponytail and began to fix her hairstyle as best she could without a mirror or brush; Jules hummed to herself as she worked, unconcerned about her teammates or the subject.

“Edward!” Sarge snapped over the comm.

“No solution, that stupid grenade blocked my shot,” Ed snapped back.

“We’re fine, thanks for your concern,” Wordy put in as he ran, sarcasm and hurt turning his tone bitter and just a tad angry. _Edward? Since when does the Sarge call Ed, Edward? And since when do they care more about stopping a subject instead of looking after the team?_

Wordy panted as he caught up with the subject, his trusty shield blocking another smattering of shots from the desperate man; he hoped the subject wouldn’t run again, the cop was fast running out of steam and his shield was getting heavier and heavier. “SRU! Put down the gun and put your hands in the air!” Wordy ordered, aiming at the subject, who had stopped in the middle of the run-down warehouse, his escape blocked by a rusty old conveyer belt. Once again, the man gave Wordy an utterly bewildered look at his words. Then he fired again, but on the third shot, the gun clicked uselessly.

“Shoot him!” Ed snarled in Wordy’s ear.

Wordy shook his head, but didn’t respond. _Shoot an unarmed man, what’s Ed thinking?_

“I have the solution.” Sam’s voice was ice, no emotion at all. _No, Sam, don’t._

“He’s out of ammo,” Wordy reported, a trace of alarm under his words. There was no reason to shoot an unarmed man.

“Good,” Sarge replied. _What?_ “Scorpio.”

Wordy froze in horror at the order. Sam fired, the subject dropping. Blood poured from the downed man’s chest. Wordy moved forward, furious and heart-broken over what his team had just done. _Why? Why would Sarge_ do _that? We could have arrested this guy, brought him back alive; isn’t that what the job is about? Saving lives, even if they’re the bad guys?_

The constable’s sense of something being very wrong with his team took a large jog up, but the pieces of the puzzle still didn’t, _couldn’t_ , click. A groan came from the fallen man and Wordy sprang forward, crouching and reaching to check the subject’s pulse. It throbbed against his fingers, fading rapidly. Wordy swallowed and looked down to see the man’s eyes open; he forced himself to meet the subject’s gaze – this was partially Wordy’s fault, after all. Wasn’t it?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, wary of the comm still in his ear.

The dying man’s gaze shifted from Wordy’s eyes and trailed down Wordy’s outstretched arm, pausing abruptly. He raised his hand a little, trying to point, and Wordy frowned in confusion. “Different,” the man rasped.

“What?”

“Patch, looks diff’r’nt,” the man repeated. “Y’u diff’r’nt…no like _them_ …” The last word trailed off as the man sagged, dead.

Wordy frowned and sat back a moment, considering the odd remarks. Hearing movement behind him as Jules finally caught up, he reached out and closed the staring eyes. Then he turned the body over and hand-cuffed the dead subject.

* * * * *

“What the _hell_ happened, Kevin?” Ed demanded, less than an inch from Wordy’s face. His expression, like his voice, was like granite, harsh and unyielding. The laugh lines he’d sported that morning were gone, replaced by frown grooves. One look at Ed’s face earlier, in the warehouse, and Wordy had known, before the other man even spoke, that banter would _not_ be welcome; not that Wordy felt like bantering after the completely uncalled for and unjust Scorpio shot.

“I don’t know, Ed _ward_ , what _did_ happen?” Wordy snapped back, fed up; inside, a flicker of hurt surfaced, wondering when his best friend had been replaced by this hostile stranger.

“You had the shot!” Ed all but roared.

“Sarge didn’t give me the order,” Wordy hissed, though he would have loved to rake Sarge over the coals for having an unarmed man shot.

“That’s enough Edward,” Sarge broke in, looking up from his flask, which he’d been drinking from since the start of the debrief. He had the bloodshot eyes and face of a hard and habitual drinker, something that had given Wordy an awful start when he’d realized it and made him even _more_ unnerved than he had been during the hot call. “Wordy understands the chain of command.” The drunken man tipped his flask in Wordy’s general direction, though he was already so drunk that his ‘aim’ was off by several centimeters.

Ed snarled but made no reply, his expression disdainful, disdain lashing at Wordy and the Sarge alike; Wordy shivered inwardly at his best friend’s behavior. _Ed, what’s_ wrong _with you?_

“Constable Lane?” a subdued, beaten-down Spike with slicked-back hair asked.

“What do _you_ want, geek?” Ed demanded, rounding on Spike, who cowered.

“Let him talk,” Wordy snapped, furious with his best friend, fed up with his team, and _more_ than a little eager for things to go back to _normal_. _What the heck is going on with everyone and since when does Spike call Ed ‘Constable Lane’?_

“How’s Jules?” Spike asked feebly, sinking lower in his seat and cringing again.

“None of your business, geek-boy,” Sam growled, glaring at Spike. He _looked_ the same, but, like Ed, sported an icy, harsh demeanor. And, like Jules, he lacked every last bit of the warmth and compassion Wordy was used to.

“Julianna declined to join us for the debrief,” Sarge slurred from his place. “She informed me that Wordy managed to completely ruin her hairstyle and she needed time to fix her hair before her evening shift at her other job.”

 _Say what? Since when does Jules have a second job? And I ‘ruined her hairstyle’?_ Wordy frowned and looked around the room. No one looked surprised, though Ed practically seethed with annoyance. _Wait a second…where’s Lou?_ The uneasy, ‘something is very wrong’ feeling he’d had since finding himself in an alley surged to new heights and fear crept up his spine.

Not only was something was wrong, very, very wrong, but the pieces of this team didn’t _fit_. _It’s like my team has been turned into completely different people. What’s happened to them? How_ did _I get from the bookstore to that alley and how do I get_ my _team back?_

Ed stepped forward, getting back in Wordy’s space. “If you _ever_ disobey a direct order to fire again, I’ll have your badge,” the team leader snarled, his face contorting in his raw fury.

Wordy made a split-second decision. “Yeah, you and what army?” he asked scornfully, praying his gut instinct was right. Snickers rose from the rest of the group. Ed growled, getting closer and Wordy suppressed a cringe as he forced himself to shove his best friend back and away. “Stay out of my face,” Wordy snapped, letting his frustration and his darker side out.

Ed surged back, shoving Wordy against the wall, a gleam of avarice in his eyes. As Wordy stumbled into the wall, he noticed his ‘team’ was watching avidly, enjoying the altercation. Ed tried to follow up on the shove and Wordy snatched his opening; in one fluid move, he twisted Ed’s arm and forced him down on one knee; from there, Wordy took _full_ advantage of the fact that Ed was off-balance to send him tumbling to the ground.

The team leader sprang back to his feet, hate glowing in his eyes and his hands balling into fists, but before he could launch at Wordy, Sarge rose, stumbling a bit and swaying just a touch. “Edward, enough. Wordy?”

“Yes, Sarge?” Wordy inquired, though he kept his eyes on Ed and his shoulders tense, using his size as a silent warning to the taller, but thinner team leader.

“Don’t switch channels on your team again.” Sarge leaned forward and squinted, more trying to glare than actually glaring.

“Copy that,” Wordy acknowledged. _That’s it? Just ‘don’t switch channels’ and nothing else?_

“We done yet? I wanna get over to the club and watch Jules,” Sam complained.

“Yeah, I’ve got something going on too,” Spike put in.

“Okay, okay,” Sarge gave in. “Team dismissed.”

Wordy let the others go ahead of him. He looked back at Sarge, who had slumped back into his seat. “You okay, Sarge?”

Sarge looked up from his flask, surprised. “Just fine, Wordy.” He eyed the tall SRU officer. “Keep up the good work and you’ll get to team leader one of these days.” He smirked at Wordy as he spoke, a gleam Wordy didn’t trust in his eyes.

 _Wait, what? I’m happy with Ed as team leader, well, at least I_ was _before he took a swing at me. What the heck is Sarge talking about? And why is he_ drunk _? Thought he quit years ago._

Getting more unnerved by the minute, Wordy left the room and headed for the locker room. He entered, only to get shoved aside by Sam as the latter stormed out. Ed and Spike didn’t even look up as Wordy moved to his own locker and opened it up. Wordy looked at the pictures on the inner doors, blinking. The images were different; more stiff, formal, almost posed rather than the relaxed family shots that _should_ have been there. Other items in the locker had different names and the organization had changed.

The constable frowned to himself as he took his equipment and bullet-proof vests off; with _everyone_ acting so weird, he wasn’t sure he wanted _his_ stuff in the equipment cage. With the vests off, Wordy reached up to tug the zipper of his uniform down and stopped at the soft _clink_ from an inner pocket. The pocket-watch. Wary, he opted to leave his uniform on and dawdled through getting his street clothes out. Spike left first, slamming out of the locker room and already on his phone. Ed took longer, but eventually Wordy was alone in the locker room.

Wordy looked around for anyone else and then opened up the inner pocket he’d stashed the pocket-watch in. It slipped out, glittering innocently in the locker room lights. Wordy sucked in a breath and looked up. His gaze landed on the SRU emblem painted on the locker room wall and he stared at it with dawning horror and no small amount of terror.

The emblem looked familiar, but not; like looking in a fun house mirror and seeing doors and people twisted into caricatures of themselves. Only this was no fun house and Wordy wasn’t looking in a mirror. The emblem’s knight helm had turned into a berserker helm and the lightning bolts had twisted into a swastika, a sight that made Wordy shiver in the empty room, his blood suddenly running very, very cold.

 _Hell…I’m in Hell._ The SRU officer looked around again, relieved he was finally alone. His team, no, definitely not _his_ team, had all left by now. The events of the briefing ran though Wordy’s head again, the pieces clicking into place at last. A briefing Jules hadn’t even stayed for, a briefing where Ed, no, _Edward_ , had laid into him for _not_ shooting their subject, and the Sarge had been drunk and getting drunker by the minute.

Wordy swallowed hard. _Kevin, they all called me Kevin, except the Sarge._ _Wait…_ Wordy’s gaze darted back to the SRU emblem. _I’ve seen that before,_ he realized with a renewed surge of fear. _When Ed called me Kevin a few months ago. When he and Spike got caught in that building collapse. He, he was talking about another me, and another Team One, and I told him it was just a dream._ Wordy snorted. _So much for_ that _idea. Then that porter gave him a keychain and he went white. It looked_ just _like that emblem._

Stunned and terrified, Wordy sank down on the locker room bench. _Real, it was real…no it_ is _real…and now I’m stuck here._

The eerie, twisted emblem loomed over the normally tough and calm constable, mocking his quiet plea. “Please, I want to go _home_.”

His gaze dropped to the pocket-watch and he scrambled to get it open, almost dropping the silver device in his haste. It clicked open and sat on his palm, but nothing happened.

“No, no, no…” Wordy moaned, clicking the watch closed and open again. Again, nothing happened and Wordy forced himself to stop. He sucked in air and studied the pocket-watch, thinking hard. _Okay, I know it brought me here. It should work the other way, right?_ The exhaustion he’d been battling all afternoon surged up again and Wordy let his head drop a bit. _Maybe that’s it…maybe if I wait a few days, it’ll work again._

Wordy set the watch down and kept his eyes on it as he dressed in his…well, his ‘twin’s’ street clothes. He slid the watch into his jeans pocket and tucked his uniform in the locker, sliding the two vests in after it; he _was not_ going to lose _his_ gear. Wary of the hellish world outside, he snatched up his sidearm and clipped it to his belt. He most certainly was not going to risk losing his sidearm and trusting the probably ill-maintained guns of this SRU or _any_ of their equipment, really.

Before leaving, Wordy fingered his SRU patch. _Stay safe guys…I don’t know how, but I’m coming_ home _._


	4. Who Ya Gonna Call?

As Wordy clicked the pocket-watch open, there was a flash of white light that seared its way across Ed’s vision. He yelled, bringing one arm up to shield his eyes.

“Eddie?” Greg demanded, his voice rising above the other Team One members. “What happened? You two okay?”

Ed blinked hard, trying to get his vision back. Behind the counter, Wordy was blinking too and looking around with an odd expression. His eyes had gone much harder than usual and Ed thought he could see a hairline scar running below his friend’s left eye. A chill of foreboding swept through Ed.

“Wordy? You okay?” Ed asked.

“Wordy? That’s _Kevin_ to you, Edward,” Wordy snapped, glaring at Ed as if Ed using his nickname was suddenly a mortal insult.

Ed stared at his best friend for a moment, then looked down at Wordy’s empty hands. “Where’s the pocket-watch?”

Wordy arched a brow, “What pocket-watch, Edward? I don’t see a pocket-watch.”

“Well, you had it, you’re the one who opened it,” Ed retorted.

“Is that so?” Wordy drawled, still looking around, insolence radiating from his posture and expression.

Ed restrained his annoyance over Wordy’s flippant and dismissive attitude. Greg’s voice sounded in his ear. “Eddie, we can’t hear Wordy on the comm.”

“Wordy, which channel are you on?” Ed demanded.

“As if you care. And it’s _Kevin_ , you idiot,” Wordy sneered. At Ed’s intensifying glare, he relented. “Okay, fine. Channel five.”

Five, not two. A second chill of something being wrong crawled up Ed’s spine. He examined the counter-top again, searching for the still missing watch, and came to a decision. “Sarge, how close are Spike and Lou?”

Wordy’s eyes all but bugged out. “Lou? Are you _nuts_ , Edward? He’s dead!”

Ed looked back at Wordy, suspicion growing by the _millisecond_. “No he’s not, Wor…Kevin.”

“We’re on our way, man,” Lou called. “One minute, maybe two.”

“Copy that,” Ed replied.

Wordy started backing away. “You’re crazy if you think Lou’s alive. I’m outta here.”

Ed moved so he was between Wordy and the door. “Lou, hurry up, something’s wrong with Wordy.”

Lou’s “Copy” was overlaid with Spike’s, “We’re here, Ed.”

Ed stayed where he was until Lou and Spike entered; then moved to cut off access to the back exit. He needn’t have bothered; Wordy was staring at Lou as if he’d seen a ghost.

“ _Lou?!?_ ” Wordy blurted, shock, awe, and more than a touch of fear in his voice; he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to back away – or run.

Lou looked unnerved, but kept his tone even. “Hey, man.”

Spike looked around the trashed store. “Wow, Ed, you sure know how to throw a party,” he teased, trying to break the meter thick tension.

Wordy’s attention snapped to Spike and he actually growled. “That’s _Constable Lane_ to you, geek-boy!”

“Wordy!” Ed rebuked, angry at the unexpected insult and hostility.

Wordy spun toward Ed and stalked toward him, fear vanishing as anger and what looked like _hate_ rose; Ed forced himself not to back away from his friend. “I told you to stop calling me that, _Edward_. Only the Sarge gets to call me that.”

Spike gasped, drawing attention back to him. “Ed,” he started, his voice quivering a little, “his patch, look at his patch.”

“Spike?” Lou questioned, confused.

Ed though, Ed looked at the SRU patch on Wordy’s arm. Below the familiar letters, a barbarian helmet over a swastika leapt out at him. _Oh. My. Gawd._ Ed looked up into Wordy’s, no, _Kevin’s_ eyes. No _wonder_ he was acting off; he wasn’t Wordy at _all_. The team leader edged backward and pulled a slightly confused Kevin’s attention back to him. “Come on, Wordy,” Ed goaded, “Tell me why only Parker gets to call you that.” He could not, _would_ not, call Kevin’s drunken, corrupt Sergeant ‘Sarge’ or ‘Boss’ or even ‘Greg’.

Kevin snarled and stepped toward the team leader, rage growing in his eyes. Ed drew him back, out from behind the counter, and moved sideways to get Kevin’s back to Spike and Lou. Spike was already alert, concern and worry carving lines in the normally cheerful face. Ed watched Kevin’s position and then, “Spike, now.”

Spike sprang forward, tackling Kevin. Ed moved an instant later, using Kevin’s surprise to kick the other man’s right leg out from under him. With Spike on his back and no balance, Kevin crashed to the ground and was flattened by the two SRU officers.

“Lou, zip tie,” Spike yelled, struggling to keep Kevin from squirming out from under them.

Kevin bucked hard, swearing loudly and viciously, forcing both SRU officers on top of him to wrestle to keep him from wriggling free. Ed twisted, snarling, “Spike, move!”

Spike let go, just long enough for Ed to slam Kevin into the nearby counter, stunning him just enough that the two cops could keep him under control long enough to adjust their positions. Spike landed his weight on Kevin’s torso, digging one knee into the back of Kevin’s right knee to keep him off balance. Ed shifted so he could slam Kevin down again if need be, his own knee pressing down on Kevin’s upper back. The team leader’s eyes were narrow, angry, and afraid for his missing best friend.

Though unnerved and confused, Lou pulled a zip tie out and tossed it to Ed, the only one with a free hand. Ed and Spike wrestled Kevin’s hands behind his back and into first one loop, then the other loop. Spike used his teeth to pull the loops tight.

Kevin kept struggling until Ed, rising to his feet, snapped, “Stay down, Kevin.”

“You and geek-boy are going to pay for this,” Kevin threatened, hate twisting his features. “Just wait till Sarge gets here!”

“Oh, I think you’ll be surprised,” Ed grumbled as he moved away from the vividly swearing man. Ed tapped his comm and added, “Sarge, I think we need the whole team here. We’ve got a big problem.”

“Eddie?” Greg questioned.

“Just get here, Sarge, I don’t know how much time we’ve got.” Ed cut the comm and looked back at Spike. The bomb tech was pale, his gaze darting between Lou and Kevin. Ed suppressed a few choice words of his own. The fate of the other Lou had haunted Spike for weeks, even when they’d both believed it little more than a dream. And the idea of Wordy, _their_ Wordy, trapped in that _nightmare_ of a world, alone and without backup…

 _We’ve_ got _to get him back. Fast._

* * * * *

“What do you mean he’s in another world?” Sam demanded, staring at Kevin and more than a tad skeptical. Kevin sneered in Sam’s direction, his disdain clear, and returned his attention to Greg, his gaze expectant and very impatient.

Ed sucked in another breath to try, for the _third_ time, to explain. “We came in, cleared the place, and there was no one here.” He looked around, checking to see that everyone was following so far. “There was this silver pocket-watch on the counter, right in the center.” The team leader pointed to where they’d found the watch. “Wordy picked it up, checked it out, and said whoever left it might have had something on the inside. Like a photo or something, I think. Soon as he opened it up, there was a really bright white flash; that’s when I yelled, Sarge; and afterwards, this guy was here,” Ed finished as he gestured to Kevin.

“Looks like Wordy to me,” Jules pointed out. Kevin glared resentfully at her, but said nothing as he watched the proceedings.

“Shoulda been here to hear him call me ‘geek-boy’,” Spike put in, grim and quiet.

“And stare at me like he’d seen a ghost,” Lou added, glancing between Kevin and Spike, his expression concerned at how quiet Spike was being.

Greg frowned and turned his attention to Kevin. “Wordy?” he asked gently.

“Hey, Sarge,” Kevin responded, tossing a triumphant look in Ed’s direction. Clearly, he expected Greg to order him cut loose.

Greg disappointed him by asking, “What do _you_ say happened?”

Kevin gaped a moment, staring at Greg. Greg tilted his head, waiting. For a long minute, the two stared at each other, one incredulous and the other still waiting patiently. Then Kevin’s face turned spiteful and he lashed out. “What’s the matter, Sarge, not drunk enough yet?”

Everyone, even Ed and Spike, froze, staring at Kevin.

“What?” Greg managed, his hands trembling ever so slightly; Ed understood, his boss hadn’t touched a drink in a decade and here, suddenly, was a member of his team that was treating him like being drunk was an everyday occurrence. That had to hurt, especially since Ed doubted his boss had believed them…well, before Kevin spouted off at any rate; Boss probably believed them _now_.

“Well, I can’t figure out why you even care what Edward and Scarlatti think when you don’t even trust them anyway,” Kevin sneered loudly. “After all, Edward’s trying to get you fired and everyone knows Scarlatti got Lou killed. So, what, you suddenly decide to dry up and play nice with them?”

Spike jumped as Lou’s hand came down on his shoulder, the less-lethal specialist reminding his best friend that he was still alive. Sam and Jules exchanged looks of utter horror; completely on board with Ed’s theory of evil twins and alternate worlds now. Ed felt his heart contract; to hear such venom from a man who looked like Wordy, but had none of his heart was like a physical blow.

And to think that the _real_ Wordy was, right at this moment, surrounded by a Team One that closely resembled _this_ man, was a punch to the gut, followed by a roundhouse swing at his jaw. Ed forced himself to keep his eyes open, instead of closing in hurt and grief; forced himself to stay tense and alert for trouble.

Greg Parker’s jaw worked for several moments as he stared at Kevin. Anger smoldered in the depths of his eyes and he did not respond to Kevin’s jeers, though Ed suspected it was a near thing; Greg tended to be a bit…touchy…about his alcoholic past. Instead, he looked at Ed. “Can we get him back?”

Ed felt his eyes drop a bit; involuntarily, he winced. “I don’t know boss. Spike and I got back but,” he and Spike exchanged grim looks. “This is almost like some kind of weird swap. One Kevin Wordsworth for another Kevin Wordsworth.”

Greg considered his team leader, then nodded. “Okay, guys. Let’s get _Kevin_ here back to headquarters. Sam, Jules, you take him. I don’t want Ed driving alone with him.”

“Copy that,” Sam said softly as Jules nodded.

* * * * *

Commander Holleran blew out a breath and sat back in his chair. The tall black man with brown eyes and glasses rubbed at what was left of his hair, gray and white peeking out between his fingers. His round jaw tightened in thought. Greg and Ed waited, painfully aware that this situation was completely out of their control and sounded absolutely, completely, and utterly insane. Finally Holleran looked up at the pair. “Let me get this straight. You,” he indicated Ed, “and Constable Wordsworth were clearing a store and you found a silver pocket-watch.”

Ed nodded.

“Constable Wordsworth opened this pocket-watch and has been replaced with an evil twin?”

“Yes, sir,” Ed confirmed.

Holleran’s gaze shifted to Greg. “You concur, Sergeant Parker?”

“Yes, sir, I do. So does the rest of Team One,” Greg replied.

Holleran heaved another sigh. “Sergeant Parker, get your team and Constable Wordsworth in here. Leave the cuffs on Wordsworth.”

“Copy that,” Greg confirmed and left.

“What are we going to do, sir?” Ed asked, trying to hide his fear and failing miserably.

Holleran surveyed the SRU Team Leader and a tiny smile worked its way across his face. He reached for the phone and quipped, “Who ya gonna call?”

Ed blinked in confusion as Holleran picked up his phone and dialed. It rang twice then, “Janine Melnitz? Norm Holleran. I’m a cousin of Winston’s.”

Holleran listened a moment and chuckled. “Sure, you can ask Winston, I need to talk to him anyway.”

Ed tilted his head as Holleran waited a minute. “Winston? Norm Holleran, I don’t know if you remember me…”

Winston obviously did, judging by the pleased look in Holleran’s eyes. “Well, I’d love to hear all about the family, but I’m afraid I’m calling on business.” Pause. “No, we don’t have a ghost but we _do_ have a problem up here.”

The pieces fell together at the word ‘ghost’ and Ed restrained his incredulity. _The Ghostbusters? We’re gonna call in those flim-flam artists to save Wordy?_

As Holleran spoke with Winston, Greg, Kevin, and the rest of Team One entered. Kevin’s gaze traveled around the neat office and he finished by sneering a bit in Ed’s direction. Clearly, Ed was not forgiven for the zip tie, nor the cuffs Sarge had replaced the tie with.

Holleran looked over the entire group, eyebrows rising as he looked Kevin over. “Winston, I’m going to put my phone on speaker. I have Team One in my office now.”

The speaker clicked on and Winston’s voice filled the room. “That’s fine, m’man, I’m gonna do the same.” There was a pause, a distant yell, and then the Ghostbusters’ phone clicked its own speaker on.

“So, exactly what kind of problem do you have, Commander Holleran?” a precise, formal tone inquired.

“Constable Lane,” Holleran ordered.

Ed nodded. “Yes, sir.” He summed up what had happened, keeping his gaze away from Kevin as he spoke.

He’d hardly finished before, “Oh, wow! That’s amazing,” came from the phone.

“Ray, Ray, Ray, let’s not get too enthusiastic here,” another Ghostbuster chided.

The formal Ghostbuster took over, “Quite right, Peter. Constable, could you describe this pocket-watch? As much detail as you remember please.”

Ed swallowed his indignation over the enthusiastic Ghostbuster and replied, “Looked like it was silver. Wordy’s the one who picked it up, so I never got a close look, but Wordy said it had engraving on it. Not English; Wordy couldn’t read it.”

There was a slightly reproachful “Peter” from the formal Ghostbuster before he asked, “And the device activated upon Constable Wordsworth opening it?”

Something in the man’s tone made Ed and Greg exchange looks. The Ghostbuster knew far more than he was saying.

“Yes,” Ed confirmed.

“You’ve seen this before, haven’t you,” Greg remarked.

There was an awkward silence and then the chiding Ghostbuster spoke up. “Nice catch there,” he praised. Not waiting for a reply, he continued, “Yeah, we’ve seen a pocket-watch like this before. Ray even tried booking a round trip with it.”

“Peter!” the enthusiastic Ghostbuster protested at once.

“Then it does go both ways?” Greg pressed.

“Well,” ‘Ray’ started, “It can, but it doesn’t work right away once you arrive. The first guy who used it didn’t get back for a week…”

Team One exchanged horrified looks at this.

“…but he kept trying the watch and that probably made it take longer to recharge. I was going to try after a day, but the Mirror Ghostbusters figured out I wasn’t their ‘Ray’ and tried to take the watch away. When I grabbed for it back, it broke.”

 _Broke?_ Ed swallowed hard, but couldn’t get the words out.

“How did you get back?” Greg intervened.

“The guys managed to find a way to use the trans-dimensional portal to boost the packs and bring me back,” Ray concluded cheerfully.

“However,” the formal Ghostbuster broke in, “Such a method is contingent upon the individual from our reality retaining the pocket-watch. We do not have readings detailed enough for independent retrieval.”

“ ‘Contingent’, Egon?” Peter teased in the background.

Sam ignored the banter. “How do we know Wordy still has the watch?”

“We do not know,” Egon replied. “Therefore, our best option is to move as quickly as possible. The longer we delay, the more likely your constable will lose the watch. How soon can you be in New York?”

“Wouldn’t here be better?” Greg countered at once, though his immediate paling at the mention of traveling to New York meant he didn’t fool his team at all. “After all, Toronto, regardless of which reality, is where Wordy will be.”

The so far silent Kevin spoke up, “What’s the matter, Sarge? Still afraid of flying?” His gaze was disdainful, but Ed noted that he gave several frightened looks toward the phone. _Okay…wonder what_ his _problem is?_

Aside from a murmured “Interesting, identical phobias” from the other side of the phone, neither group gave Kevin a reaction. The Ghostbusters moved away from the phone to confer, then returned. “You raise a good point…”

“Sergeant Parker,” Greg offered.

“…Sergeant. Where Raymond was still in New York and was, in fact, inside Ghostbuster Headquarters, your constable is quite a distance from our location. Therefore, it may behoove us…”

“ ‘Behoove’, Egon?” Peter put in from the background again, drawing a few weak chuckles from Team One.

Egon ignored the interruption. “It may behoove us to travel to Toronto, ensuring that the process does not fail due to the entirely controllable factor of distance. We shall arrive as quickly as we are able.”

“Wordy will know that the watch caused the transition,” Ed pointed out. “He’s not likely to leave it lying around. What are you worried about?”

Egon cleared his throat and there was a soft, scraping sound, as if the Ghostbuster was suddenly polishing his glasses. Ray took over. “Gosh, we picked up that _something_ happened today on our meters. We just weren’t sure _where_ it happened or _what_ happened till you called.”

“If we detected the dimensional transfer, then it follows that our counterparts will have also detected the transfer,” Egon explained. “Pure luck kept them from detecting Raymond’s initial transfer, however, I am loathe to depend on luck to protect your constable. Should the Mirror Ghostbusters locate your constable, my counterpart will relieve him of the watch, by force if necessary. And _that_ would be disastrous, both for your constable as well as our entire reality.”

Kevin sidled away from the phone as Egon spoke, drawing a warning glare from Lou. He shuddered at the attention and stopped. Once Lou’s attention returned to the phone, he started moving again.

“By force?” Jules asked.

“Indeed. He took the watch Raymond had with the intention of studying it, duplicating it if possible. Raymond’s actions, which broke the watch, were intended to protect our reality even if the result was being stranded. Having been denied the first watch, my counterpart will be intent on retrieving a second.”

“Wait a sec, my team’s gonna have to deal with the _Ghostbusters_?” Kevin half-demanded, half-yelped. “ _I’m_ gonna have to deal with _Ghostbusters_?” Fear had turned into terror and only now did Ed realize that Kevin had managed to maneuver himself into the corner furthest from the phone. And that Kevin was almost literally shaking in his boots as he stared at all of them, eyes wide and so _afraid_ that Ed wondered if Wordy’s ‘twin’ had ever encountered the Mirror Ghostbusters.

“Problem?” Greg inquired placidly, hiking a brow.

It was, ironically, Peter who responded. “Yeah, I bet. From what Ray and his twin told us, the Mirror Ghostbusters have quite the rep in his world. Stantz was even part of a couple of satanic groups. Guess it’s not surprising that your guy’s twin has heard of ‘em. Or that he’s scared of them…it’s a dog-eat-dog, everyone-for-himself kinda place.”

“All of which confirms that we must arrive in Toronto as quickly as possible, Peter,” Egon pointed out. Team One exchanged startled looks as Egon and Ray moved away from the phone, already discussing their equipment and travel plans.

The speaker on the Ghostbusters’ phone clicked off and Winston came back on briefly to say farewell to his cousin. Then he hung up.

Holleran surveyed Team One. “Greg, what are you planning to tell Shelley?”

“Do we have to tell her anything for now?” Ed asked. “It’s not like we can fix this ourselves so all she can do is worry.”

“Wouldn’t you want Sophie to know?” Jules challenged.

“Tell Sophie that I was trapped in a hellish alternate reality? Not a chance, Jules.”

“You never did tell her, did you, Eddie?” Greg remarked quietly.

“Wordy talked me into thinking it was just a dream, so why would I?” Ed retorted.

Greg considered. “Okay, okay. We’ll keep it from her for now, but if it goes longer than two days, we’ll have to tell her. Eddie, you go call her. After that, you can go home. The rest of us will draw for who gets to keep our ‘friend’ company tonight.”

“I’m not leaving, Greg. Not while he’s missing,” Ed snapped.

Greg surrendered and turned to the rest of Team One. They all gave him mulish expressions and Spike put it best. “We’re not leaving, Sarge. Wordy wouldn’t leave if it were one of us missing.”

“He’s right,” Sam agreed.

“I’m in,” Lou said firmly.

“Same here,” Jules piped up.

“How sweet,” Kevin sneered from his corner; his fear seemed to have evaporated as soon as the phone was hung up. “Do we get to sing _Kumbaya_ now? Maybe a little hair braiding to go along with the sappy stuff? Dibs on the first s’more at the evening bonfire, by the way.”

“You have s’mores?” Spike asked, taken aback. “I’d have thought those were too sweet for your universe.”

“Don’t be stupid, geek-boy,” Kevin snapped, looking offended. “Of _course_ we have s’mores…chili pepper, dark chocolate, saltine crackers, and Matcha **(1)** marshmallows are the _best_.”

Spike made a face. “Ugh, no thanks,” he muttered, a sentiment his teammates completely agreed with.

Greg ignored the brief discussion as he frowned to himself and silently planned out the first shift. “Spike, Lou, get him outta here. Pick a briefing room and keep him there.” The two started to haul Kevin out and Greg lifted a hand. “Spike, once you get him in there, get him something to eat.”

Greg wasn’t about to starve the Mirror Wordsworth, but making him stay alone – and cuffed – in a room with Lou; well, Greg wasn’t so virtuous that he wouldn’t find _another_ way to get even for the drunk cracks Kevin had tossed at him earlier.

 

[1] Green tea that apparently makes for a rather bitter taste in marshmallows


	5. Home, Sweet Home?

Wordy pulled into his ‘twin’s’ driveway and looked up at the dark house. Between Parker’s pathetic excuse for a briefing and staying late in the locker room, he was arriving well after the girls’ bedtime. He reached up, hit the garage door opener and pulled the car into the garage.

Wordy was careful to make as little noise as possible. Waking Shelley and the girls this late at night wasn’t something he would do at home; he wasn’t going to do it here. Long practice let the SRU officer sneak into the kitchen for a little dinner. Wordy popped some of the ‘other’ Shelley’s leftovers into the microwave and, when the microwave was almost done, stopped the timer before the machine could beep.

He left the meal to cool and retrieved several blankets and a pillow to make up the couch. Inwardly, he wondered if his _real_ team had caught onto his ‘twin’; judging by _this_ Team One, Shelley and the girls were in for a rough night if his team _hadn’t_ caught his ‘twin’. Wordy ground his teeth together at the thought of Shelley greeting his ‘twin’ and being treated the way Wordy himself had been treated by Edward.

The image was enough to make him gag, but he didn’t dare…the _last_ thing he wanted right now was to meet the ‘other’ Shelley…morning would be soon – and bad – enough. Instead, Wordy focused on making sure the couch was fit for a couple nights worth of sleeping on it; somehow, he didn’t think he was going to be able to just ‘pop’ home in the morning, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

Finished with the couch, Wordy went back to his dinner. He picked at his meal, grimacing at how much pepper his ‘twin’ seemed to like, though that probably _did_ explain the almost empty bottle of chili sauce in the ‘fridge. Even so, he was hungry enough to ignore the spiciness of the meal and polish it off in relatively short order. Once he’d finished and put the dishes in the dishwasher, the exhausted constable retreated to the couch.

* * * * *

Dawn came far too early, at least in Wordy’s opinion. He woke with the sun in his eyes and groaned. “Shell…” he complained, turning to avoid the bright light. A thump and a yelp later found the startled man on the floor, squinting at the couch instead of his bed.

 _Oh, rats!_ Wordy moaned to himself. _I was hoping it was just a nightmare._ Not bothering to get up off the floor, Wordy shifted and reached for the pocket-watch he’d left on the nearby table. With a silent prayer, he flipped the watch open. Aside from a touch more exhaustion, nothing happened. Wordy’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t panic the way he had the night before. _Okay, Wordsworth, you can do this…it’s just for another day or so…I hope._

Internal pep talk given, he pushed himself up and headed upstairs to retrieve clothes for the day. He opted for a stealth entry into the master bedroom and relied on the ambient light to see and choose his clothes. Fortunately, the bedroom setup was, while not identical, close enough to what Wordy was used to that he managed to navigate without falling over the bed or waking up Shelley. A bit of scouting netted him the upstairs laundry basket and he was back downstairs in short order. The pocket-watch went back into his jeans pocket and the constable breathed a sigh of relief to have it safely out of sight.

Heading into the kitchen, Wordy browsed through the ‘fridge and freezer for breakfast options. He snagged the frozen waffles and pulled the bottle of syrup off the kitchen counter. Simple enough and, he hoped, much the same as back home. Also, not something his ‘twin’ could leave ungodly amounts of pepper and spice on. At least, that was the idea…

The still tired constable didn’t bother keeping the kitchen sounds down; Shelley would probably be up soon anyway and the girls could sleep through a storm, so he wasn’t worried about waking them up. He read the waffle instructions, frowning at the slight differences between the box in front of him and the boxes he remembered from his own freezer. With a tiny shrug, Wordy opted to go with the lower end of the recommended toaster setting.

As the waffles cooked, Wordy poured a glass of orange juice; when the toaster finished Wordy flipped the hot waffles onto his plate and settled at the kitchen table with his breakfast, pouring a liberal amount of syrup over the waffles. To his great relief, the juice and waffles tasted the same as he was used to, a minor blessing. Footsteps sounded in the hall and Wordy ducked his head and tucked into his food. Judging by the twisted Team One he’d encountered, this Shelley was probably a screeching banshee.

Shelley trudged into the kitchen and headed for the sink. She looked the same, if with far more defeat in her posture than Wordy was used to. The constable studied her posture, frowning to himself; she acted like _his_ Shelley had acted, back when Shelley had been married to an utter _louse_ and she’d been hiding bruises and injuries under her long-sleeved shirts and scarves and even under her bracelets. The constable shook away the memories, then watched as this Shelley looked in the sink, cringed, and turned to the dishwasher. His brows went up as she opened the ‘washer and started examining the dishes.

“Problem, Shel?”

Shelley gave a little shriek and spun toward him. Wordy froze. Bruises littered her face and he could see a split lip from where he was sitting. Her left eye was black and fear radiated from her as she flinched away from him. The constable felt himself shudder; his eyes locked on Shelley’s injuries and if he could have, he’d have given his ‘twin’ _more_ than just a piece of his mind.

“Shel?” Wordy repeated, his stomach twisting at her appearance; he forced his voice to stay level and even, no hint of his internal anguish or anger breaking through.

Shelley’s gaze darted to his breakfast plate and she let out a little sob. “Kevin, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I should’ve been up earlier. You shouldn’t have to make your own breakfast.” Shelley swallowed and pleaded, “Please, I’ll do better.” She trembled, waiting for his response, obviously expecting him to lash out.

The big, tough constable almost fled; for _Shelley_ to treat him with such fear…it hurt and he had to remind himself that this _wasn’t_ his Shelley. He shook his head and, again, forced himself to stay perfectly still and his tone gentle. “It’s okay, Shel. I just got up a bit earlier than usual and I fixed myself breakfast instead of waking you.”

Shelley stared at Wordy as if he’d spoken in Latin. “You-you’re not mad?”

“Nope.”

Wordy dropped his gaze and went back to his breakfast, watching Shelley out of the corner of his eye. Shelley stared at him for almost a minute, gaping in shock, then she turned to the dishwasher. She examined every dish and only when she was done did she make her own breakfast. With a barely there tremble, she joined Wordy at the kitchen table. Wordy kept his head down and focused on his plate. Despite his efforts, Shelley trembled all through her meal and it was painfully clear that she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to ‘revert’ to his ‘usual’ behavior.

Suppressing a sigh, Wordy rose and collected his dishes. Shelley started and made an abortive reach for the plate and glass, fear and panic glowing in her eyes.

“I’ve got it, Shel,” Wordy said as he whisked both dishes out of reach and took them to the dishwasher. “You just enjoy your breakfast,” Wordy added, keeping his gaze away from her.

Shelley stared, shocked at the sudden change in her husband’s behavior. The longer Wordy kept his gaze away from her, the better she felt and she managed to relax a bit. Wordy busied himself with the dishwasher, putting his breakfast dishes inside and snagging a fresh glass from the cabinet; he filled it up halfway with water. When Wordy brought over the glass he’d just poured, she jumped, but took the glass.

“Kevin?”

“Just a moment, Shel,” Wordy replied and ducked out of the kitchen. The first-aid kit was in the bathroom, well used. He ground his teeth at the fact, at the fresh reminder that _this_ Shelley lived in fear of his ‘twin’, and took the kit back to the kitchen. Shelley gaped in amazement as he came back in, set the kit on the table, and opened it up. “Hold still, Shel,” Wordy requested.

Shelley all but froze in place as Wordy cleaned the cuts and bruises; the constable worked as carefully as he could, doing his best to avoid hurting her any more than she’d already been hurt. She restrained her flinches from the unavoidable pain and the fear his nearness caused; wonder entered her eyes as he bandaged the cuts. When he was done, Wordy avoided her eyes as he cleaned up the mess and repacked the kit.

Wordy drew a breath to speak, but a sound from the door drew his attention.

“Daddy?” Claire asked, her eyes wide as she gazed at him. Wordy couldn’t respond, couldn’t even pull in a breath. She and Lilly both had bruises on their faces.

* * * * *

“Kevin?” Shelley called, tapping on the bathroom door. Wordy stared at his reflection in the mirror and resisted the urge to punch it. His jaw clenched, the teeth grinding as he wished, bitterly, that none of this had ever happened, that he hadn’t had to find out about his ‘twin’ at all, much less that his ‘twin’ was _worse_ than _his_ Shelley’s ex-husband.

 _How could he? How_ could _he do_ that _to his wife? To his_ kids _?_ Wordy swallowed hard, suppressing his gag reflex with sheer willpower and reminding himself that he couldn’t just hide in the bathroom forever; like it or not, he had to face the _mess_ his ‘twin’ had created. _She’s not my Shelley. But I’ll be damned before I let that stop me from helping her. Or helping the girls._

Wordy pulled the bathroom door open and flinched as Shelley automatically cringed away from him. “Shel…” He trailed off as he spotted two curious pairs of eyes peeking out from the kitchen door; the girls did _not_ need to hear what he was about to tell their mother. He grabbed Shelley’s arm and tugged her into what was, in his world, the girls’ playroom. In _this_ world, the room looked like it was his ‘twin’s’ room, designed solely for male interests. Shelley’s eyes went wide and she started breathing harder, panic rising; belatedly, Wordy realized his ‘twin’ probably pulled her in this room to punish her. No way to help his misstep now, he’d just have to work with it.

“Shelley, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Shelley tugged free and backed up against the wall. Wordy followed her and closed the door so the girls couldn’t eavesdrop. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, but he had to do _something_.

“Shel,” Wordy pleaded, crouching down as Shelley slid down the wall, almost hyperventilating as her eyes fixed on him, still wide with terror and a hint of betrayal. “Shel, please, I promise I won’t hurt you.”

“You…you always say that,” Shelley managed, her body quivering and trembling as she wrapped her arms around her torso, hugging herself.

Wordy backed off, trying to let Shelley calm down a bit. He looked up at a clock on the desk. _Gotta do this fast. Can’t let the_ other _Team One find out what I’m doing._ “Shelley,” he said firmly, “You can’t keep letting me do this.” He cringed at the phrasing, but Shelley didn’t need to know the truth. “It won’t get better, Shel.”

“No, no, you just promised,” Shelley protested.

“You already said it, Shel. I ‘always say that’, remember?”

Wordy forced himself to wait until Shelley nodded.

“Don’t wait for this to happen again, Shel. I want you to pack bags for yourself and the girls. Take everything you need and leave. Don’t even worry about the dishes, Shel. Take the girls and run. Run as far and as fast as you can, Shelley.”

“Wh-what?” Shelley’s expression was a picture-perfect ‘deer in the headlights’ look, confusion radiated from her as she gawped at his insistent plea.

“Tell me, Shel, what are you going to do today?” Wordy kept his tone firm, no give whatsoever. If he even _hinted_ at an option, she would stay, regardless of whether it was good for her and the girls or not.

Shelley cringed and tried to curl in a ball, hiding from him, from his demands, and what she feared he would do to her. Wordy closed his eyes, clenching his fists before forcing them to open back up. The constable waited, his eyes expectant, his expression resolute. After a minute of silence, she peeked at him.

“Tell me, Shelley,” Wordy demanded.

“Take the girls and run,” Shelley whispered.

“Good, Shel.” Wordy sat back on his heels, then leaned forward again as one last thought struck him. “Promise me something, Shelley.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. Promise me you won’t look back. No calls, no letters, no e-mail, not even a text message. Dump your phone as soon as you get a new one.”

Shelley stared at Wordy, jaw working. Finally, she ducked her head and replied, “I promise.”

Wordy nodded to her and pushed himself up. He left the room and ducked into the living room to farewell the girls. He hugged each girl, careful to avoid the bruises. The grim and saddened constable headed for the car and pulled out of the driveway, hopeful that he’d given Shelley a chance for freedom. It was up to her now.

* * * * *

Wordy hurried into the locker room. His early start had all but evaporated with helping Shelley, but he didn’t regret it. As he came in the door, he almost slid to a stop in shock. No one was in the locker room yet, even though it was only five minutes to the start of their shift. With a roll of his eyes at Hell Team One’s lack of professional standards, Wordy made a beeline to his ‘twin’s’ locker and changed into _his_ uniform. Wordy paused long enough to rest a hand on _his_ SRU patch, silently repeating his promise to get home, _somehow_. Then the pocket-watch went on the upper shelf while he changed; when he was changed, he tucked it back into the inner pocket he’d used the day before. His bullet-proof vest went on over his uniform, then he wriggled into his equipment vest, fastening it in place and double checking his equipment.

With an affectionate pat to the SRU patch on his sleeve, Wordy left the locker room and snagged a spare newspaper someone had left at the dispatcher desk. Normally, he’d head for the workout room, but here and now, he _much_ preferred to keep a protective layer in place; he didn’t trust _anyone_ in this world, at _all_. The rest of Hell Team One didn’t straggle in until half an hour after the shift started.

“Good morning, Wordy,” Parker greeted the burnet, flask already in hand. Judging from Parker’s face and eyes, if he was _ever_ sober, it was very, very rare, and he’d probably already drunk enough alcohol to drop any other member of the team.

“Morning, Sarge.”

“Quite the eager beaver this morning.”

Hearing a note of suspicion, Wordy scowled and packed a pound of bitter into his tone. As much as he disliked lying, letting Hell Team One find out he wasn’t _their_ Wordy would _not_ be a good idea. “Shelley woke me up early this morning,” he lied.

“Women,” Parker offered knowingly, as he drank from his flask. The suspicion in his eyes ebbed; Wordy shuddered internally as the cold and uncaring look on Parker’s face.

The two men entered the briefing room and Wordy settled into a chair, wishing fervently for _his_ team, _his_ world, as this group of sloppy, likely corrupt cops finally assembled.

Parker rose from his seat once Hell Team One was all in the room. “Patrol today,” he announced to a chorus of groans. Wordy was a beat behind, but he doubted anyone noticed.

“The citizens of our _fair_ city are getting complacent,” Parker continued, “and they require a reminder of what’s due us as officers.” His smile was more than a trifle nasty as he went on, “Edward, you’re still team leader today. You and Wordy will be patrolling together.” He turned toward Wordy. “Play nice.” Wordy played up and shot Edward a wordless snarl, forcing his eyes to go hard and angry.

“Me ‘n’ Jules?” Sam drawled, expectation heavy.

“And Mike will remain with me,” Parker finished, not bothering to contest Sam’s assertion.

Wordy followed Edward to the trucks and got in on the shotgun side, biting back the intense longing for yesterday when he’d been home and not in hell. He’d take a prickly Ed over the cold, nasty, and likely corrupt Ed _ward_ any day. Edward hopped up to the driver’s seat and slammed his door, drawing a jump from his passenger. “Problem there, Kevin?” he demanded, a sneer on his face as he regarded Wordy.

“Only if you’ve got one,” Wordy bit back.

Neither man spoke further as Edward pulled out and set a course for their assigned area. Wordy kept his attention outside, pretending to search for citizens to harass. The kilometers ticked by quickly and soon the two men were both searching for targets; Wordy was relieved when Edward never spotted any. Silence hung in the truck, uneasy, tense, and full of unspoken barbs. The first hour and a half of their shift ticked by without a word.

“You hear the news?” Edward asked abruptly, a touch of fear just under the surface.

“What news?”

“The Ghostbusters. They’re in town.”

“What? Why?” Wordy demanded, though his hand drifted toward the hidden pocket-watch.

Edward snorted. “Who knows why they do even half of whatever it is they do. Guy who told me said something about how Spengler got some ‘interesting’ readings and they came runnin’.”

“Huh.”

“I just hope they stay away from us…even _you_ don’t deserve what they’d do to you Kevin.”

“Gee…thanks.” Wordy eyed Edward as the other man shuddered. _He’s actually scared of them._

Silence fell as both SRU officers kept their eyes outside. To Wordy’s vast relief, again, nothing attracted Edward’s attention as the kilometers and minutes continued to tick away. Wordy was just about to suggest a lunch break when his phone rang.

Edward looked over, one brow rising as Wordy pulled the phone free and up to his ear. “Wordsworth.”

“Kevin?”

 _Shelley!_ Wordy kept his gaze forward, his face expressionless. “Yeah, what’s up?” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, not even close; but he didn’t trust Edward any further than _Claire_ could throw him.

“Kevin, please… _help_ ,” Shelley pleaded.

“Talk to me,” Wordy pushed; only by a force of will did he keep the worry and concern out of his voice. He couldn’t let Edward know there was trouble, couldn’t put Shelley or the girls in more danger.

“They’re in the house, hel…” Shelley’s voice cut off as the phone was knocked away from her. Wordy heard glass shatter and angry _male_ voices in the background. Closer to the phone, the girls screamed. The _click_ in his ear as the call cut off was loud and ominous.


	6. Lost, One Best Friend

Spike stared at the cuffed figure in the worst of the briefing room chairs resentfully. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair that Wordy had been snatched away from his life and family, wasn’t fair that Team One now had to deal with someone who might look like Wordy, but had none of his heart and soul. And it _especially_ wasn’t fair that Wordy’s family might never see him again.

“What are you lookin’ at geek-boy,” Kevin sneered; disdain and disgust for Spike and the rest of Team One radiated from the Wordy look-a-like.

“At a guy who looks like my friend, but isn’t anything like him,” Spike retorted.

“ _Friend_? You think the ‘other’ me’s your _friend_? Boy, are you thick,” Kevin drawled, leaning back in the chair he’d been cuffed to. “If _he’s_ anything like me, you’re just an insecure geek who got his friend killed by a land mine to him.”

Spike froze. When he and Ed had been trapped in Kevin’s world, they’d discovered Lou was dead, but the sealed file meant Spike hadn’t been able to find out _how_. “Land mine?” he finally managed, his voice raspy and horrified.

Kevin smirked, scenting blood. “Oh, yea,” he confirmed airily, “You sent Lou downrange to reckie a bomb and he stepped on a land mine.” At the look on Spike’s face, Kevin stopped, savoring the horror. “Russian mine,” he leered, his smirk growing, “One of those mines that doesn’t go off when you step on it.” Another pause as Spike fought and failed to mask his growing revulsion. “Just goes off when you step _off_ it.” Kevin actually laughed at the sick expression on Spike’s face, then he added the punch line, “Sarge figured later that _you_ probably planted the mines.”

“He didn’t,” Lou put in from the doorway, his expression angry at Kevin for taunting his best friend. “The bomber planted those mines, not Spike. Maybe _your_ Spike’s a cold-blooded monster, but _our_ Spike isn’t.” He stepped further into the room and added, “And Spike’s not a geek. He’s a geek with combat skills.”

“Big difference,” Spike automatically finished, still reeling over Kevin’s revelation about the other Lou.

Kevin flinched, but turned toward Lou. “Hey, ghost-boy.”

“I’m not dead and I’m not a ghost,” Lou retorted. “You were talking about the Eco-terror bombings, weren’t you?”

“So?”

“Probably got real close to a land mine that day, man, but I’m still here. Defused that bomb, got it outta there. Couldn’t have done it without Spike’s help.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Lou tugged Spike to the doorway, far enough away to talk without Kevin overhearing. “How you holding up, man?” Lou asked, his eyes worried; Spike suspected he didn’t have to ask how much Lou had heard of Kevin’s taunts.

Spike offered up a limp smile. “Been better, Lou.” His gaze traveled back to Kevin, his fear rising. “What-what if it doesn’t work? What if we can’t get Wordy back?” _What if we’re stuck with_ this _guy forever?_

“Spike, stop. We’ll get him back. The Ghostbusters said they got their guy back, remember?”

“Well, yeah, but what about…” _What if he’s gone, what if they caught him?_

Lou put a hand on Spike’s arm. “Stop, Spike. No more ‘what if’s. Sarge would storm the gates of hell if that’s what it took. And all of us would be right behind him. Wordy’s fine. He’s coming home. And when he _gets_ home, we’re going to smash that pocket-watch and yell at Wordy for opening it without thinking.” Never mind that none of them could have predicted _this_ turn of events.

Spike laughed. “Thanks Lou.” Neither noticed the jealous look on Kevin’s face as he watched them. _His_ team would never come after him like _this_ team was going after his ‘twin’; they’d write him off and move on…easy come, easy go. For an instant, Kevin wondered what it would be like, to have a team that backed him to the hilt like this team did…that _cared_ like this team did.

* * * * *

Greg and Ed traded tired looks. Greg had assigned himself the second watch, determined to handle the hardest watch himself. Ed had promptly informed the Sarge that he’d be on the second watch too and cast a look at Greg that _dared_ him to argue. Greg read the near threat and opted for the better part of valor.

With Spike and Lou sent off to bed, Greg cracked his soda open and sipped it slowly. Ed had brought in his and Greg’s stacks of paperwork, suddenly much more willing to tackle that particular chore.

“When’d you quit?” the still awake Kevin asked, breaking the silence.

Greg studied the man, noting a touch of actual interest. “Before I joined the SRU.”

Kevin shifted in his chair. “And you think that makes you better?”

“Better than what?”

“My Sarge.”

“Your Sarge is on the take,” Ed pointed out, glancing up from his paperwork.

Kevin sneered. “And how would _you_ know that?”

Ed smirked and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t suppose you remember the day Spike got the better of you, do you?”

Kevin surged up and was caught short by the cuffs. “The imposters! That was _you_?”

“Yep,” Ed admitted with a shrug.

“Funny how Scarlatti needed _you_ to grow a spine,” Kevin snarled, hate twisting his face.

“He’s stronger than you think,” Greg intervened. While he didn’t know the details of Ed and Spike’s misadventure, he planned on getting them as soon as Wordy was home.

“That so?” Kevin demanded. “You think you’re better than us?”

“Think?” Ed asked, sarcasm reeking.

“Ed,” Greg rebuked.

“You’re not!” Kevin hissed, almost spitting in his rage. “You’ve got no right to keep me here.” He glared at both men. “You,” he gestured to Ed, “You needed _Scarlatti_ to save you. And you,” he whirled to Greg. “Maybe you don’t drink, but I bet all it would take is a little _push_ and you’d fall right back in.”

Ed jumped up, but Greg waved him back, calm in the face of the accusations and the angry, hurting man behind them. “Ed needing Spike’s help is not a crime. That’s how _our_ team works,” he told Kevin, voice firm.

“And the Sarge isn’t going to fall back into old habits,” Ed added, his gaze on Greg rather than Kevin. “We’re a team and we won’t let him fall.”

Greg’s eyes warmed at Ed’s stanch defense, but he kept on point and continued, “As for keeping you here, I admit we don’t have a right to keep you here. But we can hardly permit you to go to _our_ Wordy’s home and we have no immediate means of returning you to your own life and team.”

“You brought me here,” Kevin argued, but his defiance was draining away. As much as he might not want to admit it, he knew they were right.

“If we’d known what opening that thing would do, we’d have smashed it,” Ed snapped.

Kevin glowered at them, but had no ready response. Greg and Ed watched him for a few more moments but, when Kevin said nothing more, returned to their paperwork. Ed ignored Kevin, but Greg noted a few almost thoughtful looks from the man. The Sergeant wondered, just to himself, if the _other_ Team One was about to see some necessary changes, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath and he doubted he’d ever find out, regardless.

* * * * *

Jules and Sam traded wary looks as they trekked into the commandeered briefing room. Sarge and Ed looked up and departed, taking their paperwork. Kevin snored in his chair, something neither SRU officer minded. The snores were easier to handle than insults. The two constables silently agreed to stay as quiet as possible and Jules retrieved a deck of cards and a sheet of paper for a game of gin rummy.

The players spoke as little as possible, concentrating on their cards and idly keeping score as the night wore on. The room stayed, for the most part, quiet until the sun peeked through the blinds. Kevin grumbled and stirred in his chair; as he woke up, he did his best to stretch, despite the handcuffs and the fact that the briefing room chairs weren’t meant to be slept in.

Sam waited until the cuffed man was awake to ask, “Need the bathroom?”

Kevin glared at the sniper, but nodded after a few moments. Jules rose, pulling her sidearm and covering Sam as he let the prisoner up. The two escorted Kevin to the locker room’s restroom and back once he was done. Jules continued to cover Sam until Kevin was back in his seat and safely cuffed.

“So, when do you head off to your other job, Jules?” Kevin asked, a gleam in his eye that made Jules nervous.

“Other job?” Jules parried, hiking one brow as she regarded her friend’s mirror twin.

Kevin actually blinked in confusion. Then he leered a bit and elaborated, “Oh, you know…your dancing job.”

 _Dancing job?_ Jules blinked herself. “Don’t have another job,” she informed the bound man.

“Pity,” Kevin remarked. “I bet Sam would love it if you did.”

Sam growled, deep in his chest. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, come on! It’s not like it’s a big secret.” The two SRU officers traded startled looks. Kevin laughed at them, derision written across his face. “Everyone knows. I mean, how could they miss it, what with you two practically all over each other.”

“Not here we’re not,” Jules snapped.

“Even if we were, it still wouldn’t be any of your business,” Sam added.

“Yeah, uh, _huh_ ,” Kevin mocked. “Keep telling yourselves that and maybe _Sarge_ will believe it.” At the expressions on both constables’ faces, he laughed again.

Unable to take any more mockery, Jules shook her head, moved to the doorway, and hugged herself a bit. Sam followed, concern on his face.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She looked back at Kevin, longing for _their_ teammate writ large on her face.

“I miss him too, you know,” Sam said softly.

“I know, Sam, I know.” Jules sucked in a breath, thinking for a moment and tapping her fingers against her arm. “I’ll get some breakfast for us.”

“And him?”

“He can wait till we’re done,” Jules decided, a slight gleam in her eyes. No, she wouldn’t starve Wordy’s ‘twin’, but she wasn’t going to cater to him either. Or give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he’d rattled her.

* * * * *

Ecto-1’s arrival was greeted with relief from Team One and ill-disguised fear from Kevin. The Ghostbusters bustled back and forth, unloading their equipment and enlisting Team One to help haul the heavier items into the briefing room. Ed and Greg broke up the large briefing room table into its ‘component’ tables, pushed the tables out of the room, and disappeared to locate the generator Egon Spengler insisted was ‘vital, absolutely vital’ to the upcoming retrieval.

The four Ghostbusters were as different from each other as it was possible to be. Egon Spengler was the tallest by far and sported a lanky frame and blond hair arranged with a curious flip on the front and a tiny tail at the back. Behind round, red-rimmed glasses, his eyes were blue and he had a very long jaw. His jumpsuit was blue with pink accents.

Peter Venkman was shorter by several centimeters and had a stocky frame. His hair was brown and very ordered, except for an errant curl of hair dangling over one eye. Green eyes glittered as he teased and bantered with his friends. He had a squarish jaw with a slight cleft to his chin. His jumpsuit was brown with green accents.

Ray was the shortest of the four, with enthusiasm that spilled over in his brown eyes and slightly overweight frame. His crew-cut red hair all but bounced as he bubbled to Spike about Ghostbusting. His smile emphasized his rounded jaw and his jumpsuit was a light tan with darker tan accents.

Winston Zeddemore, Commander Holleran’s cousin, was as dark as his cousin, with close cut black hair and dark brown eyes. He was about the same height as Peter and had a similar facial appearance, but sported a more athletic frame. His jumpsuit was pale blue with dark red accents.

Spike peppered both Egon and Ray Stantz with questions, his eyes alight with an interest that hid the shadows in their depths. Lou stayed on the bomb tech’s heels, refusing to let Spike dwell on the cruel remarks and the even crueler story of the night before.

Jules shot down Peter Venkman before the cocky man could even finish his spiel and Sam smirked at the bemused Ghostbuster. No way Jules was interested in anything other than getting Wordy back, preferably today.

Winston conferred with his cousin, the pair of them swapping stories as they hauled in equipment and started setting things up. The Ghostbuster interspersed his stories with calling out settings and readings to Egon and Ray. Egon checked them against the printouts in his hands and offered a few minute changes.

By the time Greg and Ed reappeared, lugging the generator, Ray and Egon had reassembled the smaller tables into their larger version and moved the Ghostbusters’ packs onto the reassembled table positioned just outside the briefing room to begin adjusting them. The two left the packs for a few minutes to retrieve a large book from the converted hearse; Egon muttered something about double-checking which settings needed to be adjusted on the packs.

Peter and Winston hauled the portable trans-dimensional portal into the briefing room and started assembling it. The generator was attached at one side, with regular wall power on the other side. In short order, the two Ghostbusters had the device set up and humming as it came online. Peter left long enough to snag a PKE meter and started taking readings of Kevin, ignoring the snarls and generous swear words from the cuffed man. Other than a cringe or two at the more…colorful…swear words, Peter didn’t react at all to Kevin’s rantings.

Once he was done, Peter exited the briefing room, meter in hand. He snagged the paper Ray offered him and compared the readings there with the new ones he’d taken. “Other than the biorhythm differences we expected, looks like we’re dealing with the same alternate reality, Spengs.” The joking was gone, replaced by a professional who knew exactly what he was doing and what to expect from his equipment.

“Biorhythm?” Spike asked.

“Later, Spike,” Ed intervened.

“Yes, quite,” Egon agreed. He turned to Team One. “As I stated on the phone, we are depending on Constable Wordsworth retaining possession of the device for this procedure to work.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Ed asked.

“Then he will not be returned to our reality and we shall have to try something else,” Egon replied. He smiled a bit at the startled group. “As we would not have left Raymond in the alternate reality and, I assume, you feel the same about your constable, I do not intend to leave without achieving success in our endeavor.”

“That’s our Spengs,” Peter put in, his eyes dancing as he sought to break the rising tension, “With his shield or on it.”

“I appreciate your dedication,” Greg offered. “I know Wordy will enjoy meeting all of you.”

Ray looked up from the packs. “I think they’re ready, Egon.”

“Excellent, Raymond. Once we’ve attached them and made our final adjustments we can begin.”


	7. Saving Shelley

Wordy almost let his phone drop, but remembered where he was at the last second. If Edward got even a _hint_ of Wordy’s _real_ origin, it would _not_ go well; before he’d talked Ed into thinking this hellish world was just a nightmare, Ed had mentioned Hell Team One’s response to discovering the ‘imposters’. Suffice it to say that Wordy wanted _no_ part of that nearly lethal response, thank you very much.

“Problem?” Edward asked, something almost like concern in his tone; the faux concern was offset by the vicious gleam in Edward’s eyes.

Wordy forced his shoulders into a nonchalant shrug, doing his best to pretend it was just a regular phone call. “Nothing much, just a little issue at home.”

“Women,” Edward agreed, just as Parker had earlier.

“Actually, kind of an _unexpected_ issue, so…” Wordy deliberately trailed off, dangling a bit of verbal bait; he added to the bait with a heavy scowl of distaste.

“Need help?” Edward asked, unholy glee lighting up his face.

Wordy suppressed a shudder at the thought and shook his head. “Just drop me off here. I can handle it.”

“Sure.” Edward suited action to words and pulled over, right in the middle of the block. Wordy hopped out and pointedly slammed his door shut. He waited until the black truck pulled away to start jogging in the direction of his ‘twin’s’ house.

He did not hear Edward’s call to Parker. “Parker, something’s up with Kevin. He’s been acting… _off_ since yesterday and he just got a call…”

* * * * *

The problem, Wordy decided, with having no reliable backup and no vehicle was that it would take him close to two hours to make his way ‘home’ on foot. Still, he wasn’t going to expose Shelley or the girls to Hell Team One, well, no more than his pathetic excuse for a twin already had anyway. Plus, calling Hell Team One in to help doubled his chances of getting _caught_. The SRU officer picked up his pace, resigned to running all the way.

A shout from a nearby alley attracted his attention. Wordy slowed, not wanting to waste time, but unwilling to walk away from a person in danger. He edged up to the mouth of the alley, drawing his sidearm and tensing for action. A peek around the corner revealed two punks hassling an older man.

The constable gripped his weapon harder and spun around the corner. “SRU! Don’t move!”

Rather than obey, the two punks took off, shoving the old man down and racing down the alley. Wordy didn’t bother going after them as they disappeared around a corner; instead he holstered his weapon and moved to the old man to offer a hand up. The old man accepted the assistance, but didn’t let go once he was up. Instead he turned Wordy’s hand and peered at the SRU patch, his eyes widening as he got a good look at the patch.

“Problem?” Wordy asked, tugging his hand back and resisting the urge to cover his patch.

“I’ve seen that before,” the other replied.

The burnet’s brows shot up. “You have?”

The old man nodded. “Several months ago, an officer with that same patch saved me from some local punks.” He gestured toward the other end of the alley. “Those two actually. He got hurt stopping them, but he wouldn’t let me help until I came across him and his friend later that night.”

 _Ed and Spike._ “Did you see them again after that?” Wordy asked.

With a thoughtful frown, the old man shook his head. “No, son, I didn’t. Some of those dirty SRU officers might _look_ like them, but those two…they had integrity and heart. It’s a shame none of the other officers are like them…world might be a better place if they were.”

 _Why am I not surprised Hell SRU is on the take?_ “Well, sir, unless you need something, I have to get going.”

The old man lifted a hand before Wordy could move. “You helped me today. Your friends helped me then.” He smiled at the surprise on Wordy’s face. “I can tell, son. They’re your friends. And if just now is any indication, _you_ have just as much integrity and heart as your friends do.”

“Yes,” Wordy confirmed quietly, “The officers you met _are_ my friends.”

“Is there something _I_ can help you with, son?”

He was about to say no, but the call and the distance he still had to travel forced the constable to reconsider. “Do you have a car?”

“Certainly.”

* * * * *

Wordy waited until the old man and his car were halfway down the block before he made his way around the side of the garage and snuck in the open side door. He swept the garage and moved up onto the step into the house. A quick yank on the door handle and he was inside, sweeping the hallway and looking for any sign of life. A creak brought him around but there was nothing there. Still, the hair on the back of his neck rose and he moved as quietly as he could manage. His instincts screamed that there was _someone_ here; the whole house felt like a trap, one he was willingly walking into.

Wordy kept his back to the wall as he moved toward the living room. He pulled out the extendable mirror and scanned the room. Shelley, the girls, and an unknown male. The male looked vaguely familiar and sported something that looked like a weapon, but nothing Wordy had ever encountered before. Wordy pulled the mirror back and tucked it away, steeling himself for the confrontation.

He sucked in one last breath and whipped around the corner. “SRU! Hands in the air!” His gun settled on the blond, safety off.

The blond was tall, with short hair and blue eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. His expression was cold, with an intellectual interest and a thirst for power. His jumpsuit was blue with pink accents. He looked as if he had been expecting Wordy and he studied the SRU officer a moment before dismissing the threat of Wordy’s weapon.

“I think not,” the blond replied, unconcerned. “Rather, it is you who should disarm and put your hands in the air.” As he spoke, three more men entered, weapons drawn, aimed, and humming. Wordy stiffened as he surveyed all four men; he was outgunned and outnumbered and he knew it.

The brown-haired man had his hair down far enough that it was tied at the nape of his neck. Green eyes narrowed at Wordy and his gaze reminded Wordy of a con-man. His jumpsuit was brown with green accents.

The crew-cut auburn man was the shortest of the four, with brown eyes and a slightly overweight frame. His gaze was crafty and watchful and his jumpsuit was a light tan with darker tan accents.

The black man was the same height as brown-hair, with dreadlocks and a tattoo on one cheek. Hostility all but dripped from him as he sneered openly at Wordy. His jumpsuit was pale blue with dark red accents; his posture screamed ‘gang member’ to the experienced cop.

They looked vaguely like the Ghostbusters, but instead of the usual open-mouthed ‘o’ ghost, their no ghost patches had a snarling ghost with fangs. In Wordy’s opinion, the snarling ghost suited them _perfectly_ and summed up this entire crummy world that he was stuck in.

Wordy let his eyes narrow. “I’ll still have time for one shot,” he snapped, no bravado, just fact in his voice. He looked at Shelley, trying to reassure her with his eyes. “Let them go.”

“How…touching,” the blond drawled. “Surrender and they will go free.”

“Not till they’re safe,” Wordy refused.

The two squared off for several long moments. Finally, the blond decided, “Very well. Venkman, remove the children and their mother. Once outside, return the woman’s phone so that she may reassure her… _husband_ …that she is safe.”

“Kevin…” Shelley protested, her eyes wide and fearful as she clung to the three little girls; that she trusted Wordy more than the Ghostbusters warmed Wordy even as he realized this meant his morning’s efforts had probably just gone down the drain.

“Shel, go.” Wordy met her eyes. “Don’t forget your promise,” he added, giving her an intent look. The bored-looking, brown-haired male gestured to the women. Shelley ducked down, staying out of Wordy’s line of fire and ushered the girls after the man.

When Wordy’s phone rang, the constable freed his left hand and flicked it open, hitting the speaker button even as he kept his gun aimed and ready; he could support his gun one-handed for a minute or two. “Kevin?” Shelley asked.

“Here, Shel.”

“We’re outside, we’re safe. I’m taking the girls to my parents.”

“Stay safe, Shel,” Wordy replied.

“I will,” Shelley promised. She hesitated a long moment then, “You too, Kevin.” The phone clicked off.

“There,” the imperious blond said. “They are free and safe, Constable Wordsworth. Now, your turn.”

Wordy nodded and lowered his weapon, re-engaging the safety and popping the magazine out. He knelt, placing gun and magazine on the floor. Then he placed both hands on the back of his head. Surrender; the constable fixed his gaze on the opposite wall and braced himself. Though he was unsure of what they wanted, he knew it was nothing good for _him_.

The black man sneered at him but the redhead moved first, snatching both pieces of equipment off the floor. He yanked Wordy’s hands down behind his back, securing the captive with rope. Rough hands searched Wordy’s pockets and his gear soon littered a nearby table; Wordy hiked a brow when the redhead opted not to use the coffee table they were _right next to_ , instead using one of Shelley’s lamp tables. Finally, the redhead pulled Wordy around and opened his equipment vest, pushing aside the underlying bullet-proof vest. The pocket-watch tumbled free of its pocket, but the redhead caught it and tucked it away in a pocket of his own rather than placing it on the table.

Without looking up, the redhead asked, “Are they looking for you?”

Wordy arched a brow, his question clear.

The redhead reached up, and on the pretense of checking the equipment vest’s shoulder pocket, tapped Wordy’s SRU patch.

Keeping his voice just above a whisper Wordy replied, “Always.”

Jealousy flared in the redhead’s eyes, as if the redhead had _seen_ that kind of team and longed for it in his own life. He shook his head a touch, his jealousy joined by newborn resolve. “You’re lucky.” Before Wordy could reply, he was spun back around and nearly fell; only the redhead’s hold on the back of his uniform prevented a nasty fall. “Nothing,” the redhead snapped at the blond.

“Are you certain, Dr. Stantz?” The blond’s voice could have sliced steel.

Stantz gave his companion a dirty look, but forebode to reply.

“Very well. Constable Wordsworth, where is it?” A haughty, expectant tone, one of someone who has rarely been denied even their momentary wants.

“Where’s what?” Wordy challenged, though he had a good idea of what the blond wanted. The constable’s shoulders bunched and he met the blond’s gaze with icy calm; he would _not_ give up, no matter how dark things became.

“Do not play dumb. The pocket-watch, of course.”

Wordy looked pointedly at his gear and nodded toward his digital wristwatch. “That’s the only watch I see.” A snort. “Not to mention, I’m not much of a pocket-watch kind of guy.” He smirked contemptuously at the blond, letting his darker side out to play again.

“It’s his way home,” Venkman put in from behind the captive. “You honestly think he’s just gonna give it up?”

“It would be to his advantage to cooperate,” the blond countered.

“Let’s get this straight,” Wordy snapped, his darker side evaporating as the experienced SRU constable came into play. “You’ve threatened my family, taken a hostage, and are now unlawfully detaining a law enforcement officer. Any _other_ charges you want to add to the list?”

Venkman and the black man offered nasty chuckles. The blond was unruffled. “Your _team_ ,” he sneered, “will not interfere. Not when they find out who you are.” Having said that, he pulled out a hand-held device with blinking lights and two antenna. He stalked over to Wordy and wielded the device like a metal detector, sweeping it over Wordy’s arms, chest, and legs. It made no sound and the antenna stayed folded. Wordy eyed the device, wary, but still more than a bit smug; the blond was searching the wrong person. The blond tut-tutted and tried again. Still no response.

Before he could try a third time, shouts came from the front of the house and Hell Team One barged in, weapons raised. Wordy’s four captors whirled, their own weapons powering up. For an instant, Wordy felt a surge of hope that they would help him, then he remembered the blond’s words and realized the jig was absolutely, positively up; he’d be lucky to escape with his life at this rate.

“Hold,” Parker ordered, his eyes widening and more than a bit of fear in his eyes as he took in the four Ghostbusters. The watching Wordy wondered at that; in _his_ world, the Ghostbusters were, at worst, New York City flim-flam artists.

“A wise decision, Sergeant,” the blond man remarked. “I am Dr. Egon Spengler. I am sure you are familiar with myself and my associates.”

“I am, Dr. Spengler. What business do you have with Constable Wordsworth?” Parker asked, gaze darting briefly to Wordy. Though there was a smidge of concern, Wordy knew it wouldn’t last for long.

Spengler waved a hand. “Nothing that would interest you, save one small detail.”

“And that detail is?” Parker demanded.

_And three, two, one…_

“This is not Constable Wordsworth…at least not _your_ Constable Wordsworth. He hails from another reality, and is none of your concern.”

Hell Team One did not react well to this announcement. Wordy was roundly – and loudly – cursed and Edward even rushed forward to deliver an uppercut and a knee to the reeling man’s gut. The constable was hurled back onto his ‘twin’s’ glass coffee table, the surface shattering as he landed on it; fortunately, most of the shards ended up in his bullet-proof vest instead of his back.

“Edward, enough!” Parker ordered, eyes ice-cold as he waved the angry team leader back. He turned to Spengler. “Do whatever you want. I’ll have no imposters on my team.” There was a brief hesitation, then, “If you get the _real_ one back, I expect him returned to us.”

“Certainly, Sergeant Parker,” Spengler purred.

Parker gave the Ghostbuster a short nod and then, with a few curt gestures, Hell Team One departed.

“Dr. Stantz, take our guest to Ecto-1,” Spengler ordered once they were alone again. His voice was smug and he threw an amused look at his captive as Stantz pulled Wordy up off the wreckage of the glass coffee table.

“Don’t forget his stuff, Rayster,” Venkman put in. “Might be something important in there,” he added at Spengler’s expression.

For Wordy’s part, he was just grateful that his gear was on the lamp table and hadn’t been on the coffee table; landing on it would _not_ have been fun…for anyone, _including_ Hell Team One. Though, come to think of it, as lousy as Hell Team One was, they might not even _have_ flash-bangs or much of the other gear Wordy took for granted and carried on a daily basis.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Venk,” Stantz hissed. Still, every object, save the still hidden pocket-watch was returned to Wordy’s uniform and vest. The wristwatch was stuffed in a pocket instead of refastened on the constable’s wrist, but that was better than losing it. Stantz dragged Wordy out of the room and out to the back alley, where a converted antique hearse awaited them.

With a quick scan of the area, Stantz hauled Wordy behind the hearse and out of immediate sight. The bound man’s bullet-proof vest was pushed aside again and the pocket-watch was slipped back into the hidden pocket. “You knew,” Wordy whispered, surprised. How? And why was Stantz _helping_ him?

Instead of answering immediately, Stantz pulled out Wordy’s sidearm and magazine. He slid the magazine back in and tucked the gun in its holster. “Yeah, had a trip myself last year.” Stantz studied him a moment, then pointedly tapped his no ghost patch. “If your team is _anything_ like _them_ , they’ll call _them_ in and _they’ll_ get you back. But you’ll need the watch for it to work.”

“Anything else?” Wordy asked, studying his unexpected ally. Maybe this world wasn’t so bad, even if he still didn’t want to stick around.

Stantz started to shake his head, then stopped, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Yeah, actually. Tell Egon I never told Spengler where they found the first watch.”

“Copy that,” Wordy promised.

The SRU constable looked around again, searching for something to say, then he glanced down, startled. Heat was warming his skin, from inside his vest.


	8. Heat ‘Em Up

Egon Spengler nodded in approval. Winston had replaced the cuffs with rope and Slimer had performed the rope trick that had proven its value in the original instance. A layer of slime, hardened by a quick thrower burst and the rope could not be removed without being _cut_ off. As the retrieval approached, Team One arrayed themselves in the doorway, tense and wary. One final check of Peter’s thrower settings and preparations were complete.

He studied Wordsworth a moment. “While I have little doubt that you have given Sergeant Parker and his team as much trouble as you could, I do recognize that you did not arrive in our universe by choice,” the scientist began, adjusting his glasses as he spoke.

“You got _that_ right,” the bound man hissed.

“I do apologize, but you will feel some discomfort during the procedure. While I could compare it to a very light thrower backlash or perhaps the sensation of having a ghost pass through you, I doubt that you are familiar with either effect.”

“Get it over with,” Wordsworth demanded, both belligerent and fearful. Given what Egon knew of his counterpart, he was not at all surprised by Wordsworth’s attitude.

“Very well,” Egon agreed. He turned toward Peter. “As we did with Stantz, we shall fire on the count of three, aiming for his chest. I shall fire near the left shoulder and you will fire near the right. Winston will man the portal.” He looked at Team One. “Please remain by the doorway and be prepared to follow instructions.”

Without waiting for a response, Egon leveled his thrower at Wordsworth. Peter did the same. “One. Two. Three.”

Twin thrower beams leapt out, perfectly on target. Wordsworth yelled, coloring the air with swear words, but did not lose consciousness.

“Winston. Alter the portal settings precisely two degrees on my mark.”

“Ready,” Winston called.

“Mark.”

The throwers gave a brief buck as power increased. The streams darkened from yellow to gold, sparks flying. By the door, Constable Callaghan gasped. Wordsworth squinted against the increased light, but did not close his eyes, even as he clenched his jaw and bunched his shoulders.

“Spengs?” Peter asked, tilting his head at the officers.

“Quite right, Peter. Everyone, when I say ‘mark’ close your eyes. That includes you, Wordsworth.” Wordsworth snarled, but Egon ignored that, listening for his meter. The generator roared to life, adding its growl to the building hum of the throwers. The green, potato shaped Slimer shrieked and vanished through the ceiling, though the generous floor space meant the slime he left behind dripped on the floor rather than any of the humans. Still, the meter did not shrill.

Wordsworth no longer yelled, reduced to gasps and pants. Peter’s breathing next to Egon was equally harsh as he held his thrower steady. In the doorway, Team One alternated between whispered prayers and hisses of frustration. And still, the meter did not shriek.

Time stretched, seconds feeling like hours. The throwers vibrated, going slick with sweat from their wielders’ hands. Then, just as Egon feared _their_ Wordsworth had lost the watch after all, the meter shrilled, its wail rising above the room’s sound level. Egon counted under his breath as the meter’s shriek built to truly painful levels.

“Mark!” he bellowed and squeezed his eyes shut. Light flared throughout the room, searing their vision even with eyes shut and, in some cases, arms raised against it. Egon counted under his breath, waiting for the blaze to die.

The white light died almost sullenly, reluctant to release its grip on the room. When it did, Egon gave one final order, “Power down, Peter.”

Both throwers cut off, Peter’s a beat behind Egon’s. The meter’s shriek died at once and the generator’s background rumble slowly fell away as well. Egon opened his eyes and began blinking the spots out of his vision, peering as best he could at the figure in the chair.

* * * * *

Ed clenched his fists as the Ghostbusters fired at Kevin. Evil twin or not, he _looked_ like Wordy and that made watching him suffer particularly hard. Dr. Spengler didn’t even flinch as he ordered Zeddemore to alter the portal settings. Light built, but the meter Dr. Stantz had set so carefully didn’t even beep.

“Come on, come on,” Ed muttered. Jules looked like she was praying and Spike was murmuring something in Italian, a mix of fear and begging in his voice. Sam and Lou were stricken, unable to say anything as they watched, wishing they could do something, _anything_ , to help.

Greg’s eyes were on Kevin as well, concern and sympathy radiating from him. At Ed’s mutters, he placed a hand on his team leader’s shoulder. “Have faith, Ed.”

On cue, the meter shrieked, making all of Team One lurch backward in surprise. Sarge waved them inside the door and reached out to slap the controls to shut the door. The barrier dropped, protecting the rest of the station from the light of the throwers.

Greg’s action was none too soon, for Spengler bellowed, “Mark!” as the barrier fell and the team closed their eyes, turned away, and brought up their arms to shield their eyes. The light was even brighter than the initial flash Ed had seen, practically searing the room in a fierce brilliance that also lasted far longer than the initial flash. When it finally died, Ed looked up, blinking hard.

Wordy sat in the chair, slumped; arms tied behind his back with rope and a fresh bruise on his face where he’d been punched. Ed raced across the room to Wordy, barely even glancing at the now correct SRU patch. Ignoring the rope and the bruise for the moment, Ed grabbed his best friend and hugged him, hard.

* * * * *

Wordy felt the world twist around him as white light flared and a tingling sensation raced along his limbs. He saw Stantz smirk at him and then the world turned inside out.

He came to in a chair that felt like a briefing room chair. Before he could look up or even gather himself, someone grabbed him and hugged him. He blinked, trying to see who it was and fighting the urge to struggle.

“Wordy!” Spike yelled in joy from the other side of the room. A human-sized rocket hit Wordy from the side, shoving him into the first person who’d grabbed him. The next thing he knew, he was being hugged half to death from all sides. How his team managed to avoid the glass still embedded in his back, shoulders, and vest, he didn’t know and didn’t care. Sam and Jules bypassed Spike and got on Wordy’s opposite side, Lou shoved Spike over to make room, Sarge was by Jules, tears in his eyes, and Ed; Ed, who’d grabbed him first, did not let go, but did shuffle aside enough to make room for Sarge.

 _Home, I’m home._ Wordy let out a muffled sob of relief and let himself lean a bit further into Ed’s arms. The group stayed as they were for almost a minute. There was a hiss from the doorway as the steel barrier rose. Wordy jumped a little at the noise.

“Constable Wordsworth,” Commander Holleran intoned.

Team One parted, slow, reluctant, but sure. Ed helped Wordy stay upright and turned him toward the commander; the team leader scowled at the sight of the glass shards and began to pick them free. Jules retrieved a trash can for Ed to drop the shards into, then moved to Wordy’s other side to help. Holleran sucked in a breath at the sight of Wordy’s face and the first few shards Ed pulled free; some of them marked with blood. Wordy shifted, getting his feet under him and stood on his own, restraining a cringe or two as the glass shards were pulled loose. “Sir.”

Holleran inspected his constable from head to toe, frowning at the damage and the bulging pockets from Stantz’s haphazard organization efforts. He might have said something about the rope, but Greg ducked between Ed and Jules to cut Wordy loose and took over Ed’s part of the shard removal, nudging Ed to put his arm around Wordy’s shoulders and keep the exhausted constable upright.

Finished with his inspection, Holleran looked his constable in the eye. “Once you’re debriefed and seen to, I don’t want to see you before next Monday, Constable.” His attention turned to the Ghostbusters. “Thank you for your efforts, gentlemen. We can discuss things further in my office.”

“Wait,” Wordy said, looking at the Ghostbusters; behind him, his teammates paused in their efforts to watch.

“Yes, Constable Wordsworth,” Dr. Spengler inquired.

“The ah, _other_ Dr. Stantz wanted me to pass on a message.”

Team One and the Ghostbusters exchanged startled looks at the mention of the other Ghostbusters. “You met them, Wordy?” Sarge asked gently, moving so Wordy wouldn’t have to twist around to look at him.

“Yeah, Boss, I did,” Wordy confirmed; looking over at Sarge was easier than looking at Dr. Spengler.

“I doubt the encounter was all that pleasant,” Dr. Spengler muttered.

Wordy pulled his arms forward, flexing his wrists. Careful not to drop anything, he pulled his vest off and set it on the table, blinking in surprise at the fact that most of the glass shards were already out. Even _more_ carefully, he pulled his bullet-proof vest off and passed it off to Spike. Then he tugged the silver pocket-watch free from its hiding place; his team gasped and tossed the watch a few glares – okay, a _lot_ of glares, most of them just on the edge of lethal. With a tiny smirk at his teammates’ reactions, Wordy stepped forward and offered the watch not to Spengler, but to Stantz. “He said to tell you that he never told his team where you found the first watch.”

Venkman let out a low whistle. “Wow, Spengs, guess we taught him something after all.”

“You did,” Wordy agreed. “He asked me if _my_ team was looking for me…”

“Always,” Sarge and Ed said at the same time. The rest of Team One smirked at their Sergeant and their Team Leader’s simultaneous response.

Wordy chuckled and nodded. “That’s what I said. I don’t think he meant for me to hear, but he said I was lucky.”

All four Ghostbusters smiled at that, trading looks that spoke of how close _their_ team was. “You certainly are, Constable Wordsworth,” Dr. Spengler observed. “As are we Ghostbusters. I pity anyone without such friendships as we possess.”

Zeddemore looked toward the watch. “What are you gonna do with it, m’man?” he asked Dr. Stantz.

Dr. Stantz grinned and looked a question at Dr. Spengler. The latter frowned, but inclined his head. “Peter?” Stantz asked.

“Sure,” Dr. Venkman agreed. He fielded the watch, cast a smirk at Team One, and dropped the watch on the ground. The watch landed with a tinkle and crash of breaking glass and components. To finish the job, Venkman stepped on the watch, drawing more cracks from the device. “And it’s out!” he crowed, gesturing like a baseball umpire calling the last out of a championship game.

Team One cheered.

* * * * *

“You okay?” Ed Lane asked his best friend, an anxious look on his face. Wordy had just gone through an experience that still ranked as _Ed’s_ worst SRU experience and, if the debrief was any indication, been _minutes_ away from being _permanently_ stranded thanks to the Mirror Egon Spengler. It made the squabble he and Wordy’d had that day seem petty and insignificant. If that had been the last time Ed saw his friend… Ed tried to cut the thought off, but it stuck, refusing to leave him alone and it took an act of will to keep his eyes on Wordy’s.

Wordy looked at his best friend. “No, Ed, I’m not okay. But right now, all I want is to go inside and hug Shelley and the girls.” He stiffened, seeing the guilt in Ed’s eyes, then asked, “What about you, Ed?”

Ed looked away, swallowing hard. _Darn it all…_

“Ed?”

“I’m fine.”

Wordy huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m with Sarge. You might want to do the math on all the ‘I’m fine’s one of these days.”

“I’m not the one who was stuck in hell for the past day,” Ed couldn’t help but snipe.

“No, but you did have to listen to my ‘twin’ the whole time.”

Ed couldn’t meet his friend’s gaze. Wordy waited. “Maybe in a couple days, Wordy.”

Wordy nodded. “I’m going to hold you to that, Ed.”

He climbed down and walked to his front door. Shelley met him and pulled him inside. The girls crowded around their father and Wordy folded all of them into a hug. Ed watched for a minute before he put his car in gear. Yes, they had Wordy home, but darn it, that had been _far_ too _close_. And he was _never_ calling the Ghostbusters flim-flam artists _ever again_.

* * * * *

“Kevin?”

Wordy flinched, just a bit, and looked up at Shelley, his eyes sheepish; it was going to be a couple days before he could take hearing his own name without remembering his ‘twin’ and his ‘twin’s’ team. “Hey, Shel.”

She joined him on the couch, her expression concerned. “When Ed called, I knew he wasn’t telling me everything.”

Wordy managed a bit of a chuckle at the understatement; he’d bet his next paycheck that Ed hadn’t told Shelley _anything_ , except _maybe_ that he was missing. “Well, it’s kind of…out of this world,” he remarked, keeping his voice as upbeat as possible.

Shelley leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. “Tell me.” When Wordy gave her a slightly uncertain look, she rapped him lightly on the ribs. “Everything, Kevin. Including why you just flinched at your own name.”

With a chuckle at his feisty, stubborn wife, Kevin ‘Wordy’ Wordsworth grabbed her hand and pulled it closer. “Well, it started during patrol yesterday…”

* * * * *

We shall not cease from exploration  
And the end of all our exploring  
Will be to arrive where we started  
And know the place for the first time.  
~ _T.S. Eliot_

 

_~ Fin_


End file.
